Stormy Seas

By Michelle Fox

Welcome to my crazy mermaid life, taking on salvage dives to pay the bills. It's part Underworld, part Pirates of the Caribbean, and always a huge pain in the gills.

 

Let's get our tentacles straight up front. I don't want to dive for anyone to begin with.

 

But if I dive and get stiffed? I will come for you.

 

Bernie McKay thinks he doesn't have to pay. Well, school isn't just for fishes. I've got a lesson or two the cocky alpha needs to learn. If only the vampires and pirates would leave me alone long enough to deliver it.

 

Weak doesn't survive long in the sea and I left weak behind a long time ago. Watch out, Bernie. This wave I'm making? It's just for you.

 

A short urban fantasy featuring one very pissed off mermaid who's cranky AF.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Fox
• Release date: Feb 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215657478

Book preview

Chapter One

~*~ Even a tsunami can look like good news in the beginning. ~*~

I raced onto the marina dock, leaping over loose boards, pushing my webbed feet to go faster. Escapes were all about timing and mine stunk like rotten fish.

Poseidon...if you're out there, take your trident and skewer Bernie McKay right up his cat shifter blowhole.

Fast.

At least I'd made it to the docks, which put me at halfway through my botched getaway. Now just to free the Bonne Marie from her moorings and make for open ocean. I dealt with the first mooring rope holding my boat and then tangled with the second, which refused to give.

Great.

I needed fewer problems, not more. Instead, the knot stayed tight, and my spine prickled alerting me to a presence behind me.

Someone else was on the dock.

Someone I hadn’t noticed.

I glanced over my shoulder, stomach clenched, fists ready to break faces. I'd sprinted my way into a good lead, but maybe the werecats had caught up. It wasn't McKay's gang of cats, though. Just a pudgy man in a three-piece suit and a funny hat moving slow.

Werecats didn’t do round. They weren't short or slow. And they most definitely did not wear funny hats.

Thank Poseidon for small waves.

The tight pit in my stomach relaxed, and I turned back to the mooring rope. Didn't know Pudgy. Didn't care. The only thing that mattered: hauling my halfling ass out of Grenada before my guts became the newest toy for the werecats.

I kept working on the knot in my mooring rope. I could still get gone before the cats-on-a-rampage caught up with me.

But then Sir Pudgy spoke. To me. Like I had time.

Princess Yola? An English accent sharpened his voice.

I refused to look at him. Anyone who used the P word didn't know me. The knot I was fighting to undo stayed tight as an angry clam. The seconds ticked by, each tick a small but visceral hit to my gut. Damned knot was eating up my lead.

Stealing the telescope back had been easy, but some fluff-for-brains had looked out the window just as I'd scaled down the stucco facade of McKay's pale pink mansion. I'd gotten away—my fin feet weren't pretty, but you bet the tide they made me a fast runner. Not because they were graceful, but because I could dig in and push off harder. Only fast wasn't enough this time. The matted hairballs knew where I docked.

And time only moved at the speed of the rope I was trying—and failing—to unravel. Which was to say...I should cut the mooring ropes, but then I'd have to replace them. My life was all problems and no solutions today. Lucky me.

Princess?

The man came closer. The weight of his footsteps shuddered through the worn dock of the marina like a warning in Morse code. For the humans, Grenada had built modern docks with concrete pillars in the best spot in the bay. Supes like me were relegated elsewhere. The weathered wood of the docks allocated to supernaturals wouldn't even make a good life raft, but we tied our boats to it anyways.

That was the law.

Life wasn't fair. Even with magic.

The man's shadow hit me, and I whirled around, the rope still clenched in my hands. What?

He took a step back at the animosity snapping in my voice. Good. I'd intended for that to happen. Also, how had he not melted in the tropical Caribbean heat? It was nearing ninety-five. He should be frying like an egg in that suit.

Then again, what did I know about clothes? I liked to be naked, and only wore bikinis to avoid trouble. Maybe there were humans out there who found ninety degrees to be cold.

Wait.

Was he a dragon?

I cocked my head at him, looking for scales or other signs of dragon-ness, my fingers still plucking at the stubborn knot. Who are you? I filled the question with a soft note of coaxing, and his heavy face went slack. It worked on the knot, too—the rope opened like a flower in my hand.

Wanting to live a long life, I did a quick scan of the water lapping at the dock. The sea hadn’t noticed my small song cast.