When the open region of the park finally came into view, she saw a person on the ground in front of a bench. The only cats around were a few hissing as they retreated, and the figure was hunched over a journal as if in agony.
“I just wanted to see better. Come back!”
The voice was familiar. It was the strange woman from the bus stop. She clearly lacked experience with cats, which explained at least half of the situation. The rest, Hazel wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
She power-walked across the open area near the fountain. There was no sense in interrupting… whatever was happening, with a fluffy barnacle clinging to her back. There was a path with a sign not too far off. “Seafarers’ Memorial Stone.” Where else could a restless spirit be taking her?
Octa dug deeper into her skin as she started down the trail. Hazel wondered if she would have visible claw marks later. Even after leaving the other park-goer well behind, she found Octa was still quick to stare down and growl at what looked like nothing. Of course, cats liked staring at things humans couldn’t see, but they didn’t often growl. The sound and vibrations tickled her ear.
Although the Memorial Stone was well-known, its popularity had plummeted and flatlined as the fishing and tourism had dried up in Red Marina. A general lack of visitors left it slightly overgrown and home to a bit too much lichen. Nonetheless, a large stone with many old inscriptions sat atop a cement display platform. Around it, smaller stones carved with initials and names were scattered in disarray. Partially hidden behind a half-dead sapling, a plaque provided information on the historic site.
“Is this it, furball?” Hazel tipped her head into Octa’s side. The cat leapt down, landing with a thud.
It shook its fur out, scratched both ears and laid down flat in a patch of sunlight.
“Yeah?” Hazel sat next to the cat on the ground. She felt accomplished, having successfully worked out exactly what Octa wanted. Then it hit her—nothing was different because of it.
After close to an hour of poking around near the memorial, reading the rocks and taking any cues she could even imagine she might be getting from Octa, she accepted defeat. There was nothing to be learned at the Seafarers’ Memorial. There was no dramatic revelation to be had, no sign from the other side. There was an undead cat doing cat stuff, like sleeping and stretching, accompanied by an entirely clueless living human.
Returning home, Hazel found her mother in the kitchen. An average-looking, average-acting adult besides her temper, she was audible before she was visible.
“What kind of crap is that?” Screaming at people over the phone was a common behavior for Mrs. Wilson. Hazel knew better than to interrupt, but she also knew all of the food in the house was in the kitchen fridge. This could only mean one thing- it was time to go for fast food.
“But why would you buy extra icing if you’re not going to eat it?” Tristan reached for a tub of fudge frosting on Rhea’s counter.
“It’s not extra! Pastry bags and decorating tips let you put more on the cupcakes, so we need it.” She gabbed the icing and put it on the stove next to a cooling rack full of under-cooked cupcakes. “Have you been getting any better at your song? And where’s your frost stone?”
Tristan unwrapped a naked cupcake from an earlier batch. Rhea reached for it before he could try to eat it whole, but he dodged.
“Uh…song…” He continued to sweep the cupcake in different directions and away from Rhea’s hand. “I…” Evading her successfully, he found an opening to cram the entire pastry in his mouth. Muffled gibberish was offered through the unchewed cake as his answer to Rhea’s questions.
The most useful skill for a merperson was, without a doubt, their “song.” The ability to use a special voice to manipulate regular humans had always come naturally to Rhea, but not Tristan. For that reason, he’d done more research than she had to develop his skills. The effects were yet to be seen, but he knew lots of techniques and theory.
“Fine. Be like that.” Rhea began to incorrectly set up an icing bag with a Russian piping tip. “Do you know about things that distract people from us?”
Tristan gestured to wait while he choked down the cupcake. Exactly what every girl wanted to see- a buff guy, gagging on food that didn’t properly fit in his mouth. “You know, this is why you’re single,” she teased.
With considerable effort, he managed to finish chewing. “It makes me popular with girls, for your information. Ladies like the confidence.” Rhea raised an eyebrow. Tristan folded his arms and grinned. “I just have other plans right now.”
“Someone I know?”
He shook his head. “Someone you'll know later… when he’s mine. And you know what’s really distracting when you try to use your song on somebody?” Rhea perked up at the implication of useful information. “When you’re hungry.” He began to unwrap another cupcake.
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