Cobalt: A Prequel Novella (Pretty Little Mermaids Book 1)

by A.L. Knorr

I need space—the calming effect of sea air—I don’t care where I go or how I escape, as long as it’s toward the ocean.

Not far away, nestled in the Upper East Side is a cute and cozy fourth-floor apartment stuffed with books, soft, well-worn furniture, and photos of the smiling couple of which I have been half.

I were just a twenty-three-year-old woman—as is stated on the government-issued ID I left back in our apartment—and not in my eighties, with a load of secrets heavy enough to sink this vessel, then all might easily be forgiven. But a twenty-three-year-old woman I am not… and all is not so easily forgiven.

I stare up at the most beautiful ship I have ever seen. Cobalt Girl looms before me like the largest diamond on a tiara.

I return my gaze to the porthole, hoping he takes the hint. Sadly, the temperature I’m giving off is either ignored or not registered.

He shows almost all his teeth at once. It’s a little alarming. “Nice name. Means pretty but it falls far short. Your folks should have chosen the word for gorgeous instead. Are you traveling alone, Jolie?” I narrow my eyes. “Why?” He props an elbow on my table and takes a shallow sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Me too. I have a stateroom on the Commodore deck.” “Good for you.” He chuckles as if I’m being coy, and tilts his glass in my direction. “Which deck are you on?” As if I would answer that, even if I had a suite. “I forget.” “That ring just for show?” he asks next, undeterred. “Show?” “You know, a prop to keep men away. You put it on when you want a wide berth, then slip it off when someone piques your interest. I’ve been watching you play with it.” He actually waggles his brows. “Deciding whether or not to take it off?” Even without the lewd facial gymnastics, there is something increasingly creepy about the way he swirls his bourbon around in his glass while staring at me. Some might find him charming, but he is getting on my nerves. “Good day, Will.”

Beautiful girls always wreak havoc on my concentration. In fact, it’s not until I get to know them that their spell over me lifts, because beautiful girls who aren’t also interesting and clever have no power over me at all.

I’m sure the girls in my class will grow up to be nice, at least some of them. But right now, they’re”—I chew my lip, searching for the right adjectives—“annoying and a bit scary. They’re pack animals, and most of them don’t seem to speak the same language as me.”

A caged bulb over the door that I hadn’t noticed has turned red: the color of danger, alarm. Panic.

I can see a pocket of air and sloshing water. It looks a bit like blood in the darkness and the red emergency lighting.

Mermaids don’t wear shell bras or any kind of underwear. Film directors couldn’t have bare breasted sirens filling up movie screens, especially in films made for kids, so they had to come up with a solution. The first time I ever saw The Little Mermaid, I thought the idea of a shell bra was absurd. Cute, but completely impractical. In reality, we don’t feel shame over our naked bodies.

The water tastes alternately like alcohol, diesel and laundry detergent. It’s oily and frothy, agitated. As thousands of gallons of water fill Cobalt Girl, I feel like a character trapped inside a garbage-filled snow-globe.

Cobalt Girl begins to roll. I don’t know where it’ll come to rest. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fragile spark of life that I desperately seek to stoke within my new friend.

Cobalt Girl has wrecked. It strikes me hard that I survived a shipwreck. Did the ship sink entirely? How was such an error made? But most importantly, where is Gina?

Silt floats around it in a cloud, while detritus—jagged planks, bits of broken metal sheeting, clumps of fabric that might be clothing—lie everywhere like tattered Halloween ornaments.

I’ve seen many wrecks in my life. Hundreds, but I’ve never endured a wreck before, at least not that I can recall.

If you ask me, he’s a real nice kid and a real live miracle.” My father looks down at me, eyes soft. “That he is.” Warmth blossoms in my chest at those three short words.

The wreck site is calm but not at peace, and the signs are evident—the wreckage fresh, the tragedy recent. A collection of debris and random detritus surrounds the wreck, forming a disheartening ring of remnants.

I’m thankful that there are no humans entombed in this refuse. It strikes me that there would have been a death had I not met Seth.

The rigging, now lifeless and in disarray, hangs like a tangled web between broken spars.

When I see something sparkle in a beam of sunlight, I forget about the movement of the water and dive. My heart lifts as though inflated as I grab my ring from a pile of linens, still partially folded. It sits on top as though perched in the cushion of a jeweler’s velvet-lined box.

I close my eyes and focus on the salt. Salt takes the edge off my claustrophobia and helplessness. It helps for now, but if I can’t find a way out of here, the salt will become my enemy.

The universe has played a macabre practical joke on me—I am not returning to New York. Instead, I am condemned to this submerged tomb. Instead of running into the arms of my fiancé, I await every mermaid’s worst nightmare: transition into a state called salt flush. I will lose all of my memories and all of my humanity. I will—over time—devolve into a primal sea creature without the ability to reason. I will lose not only my fiancé—more completely than I ever conceived possible when I ran away—I will lose myself.