#Chapter 2 Tail Cut And Escape the Pack

Viviane’s POV

The operation lasts hours. I hover on the edge of existence, wavering in and out of consciousness. I feel every last slice of their blades, every new tendon sewn into my muscles and nail hammered into my bones.

Arteries are rerouted, nerves and blood vessels are carefully fused with tissues unwillingly donated by other mermaids who did not survive their own surgeries. This will be my future if I do not make it off of the operating table. My corpse will be picked over by these vultures, my bones stolen and inserted into the body of another.

I see everything, the biohazard coolers from which new body parts are continuously extracted, the red disposal bins where my mutilated tail lays in tatters.

My scales, an unusual combination of blues, pinks and purples, are spread out on a separate counter – awaiting processing. Our bodies might be cannon fodder for the Bloodstone pack, but not an ounce of the riches we contain go to waste. The reapers tell us our scales are considered the height of fashion in the pack cities, they are woven into clothing and hats for aristocrats who wish to flaunt their wealth.

The shifters have never understood our gifts. They see only material beauty, caring nothing for the true magics the gods bestowed upon us. We can hypnotize men with our voices, knit seafoam into silk that shimmers like frost crystals and can never become wet, and grow corals and sea flowers with no more than the touch of our hand, but to them we are nothing but ornaments – decorations.

The sight of my beautiful scales, which the head surgeon had announced “will go for a very high price,” sends me over the edge. I scream endlessly, drawing 13 years of pain from a well deep inside me. The surgeons don’t even notice, continuing to slice and sew as if I were still unconscious.

The worst comes at the end. Where my tail once rested, two human legs now extend. The surgeons somehow managed to match the skin tone to my naturally golden shade, but the limbs seem soft and wormlike.

Every inch of the freshly constructed parts sear with excruciating pain, they are tender and fragile, barely held together by sutures, staples and nails. I have no idea how I’m meant to walk on these things. Just when I think the operation is finally over, the head surgeon pulls out an odd contraption. It almost looks like a pen, but it is connected to a long electrical cord.

I see the light burst from its tip a moment before I feel the laser carving into my ankle.

The brand.

I forgot about the brand.

A simple symbol of a tail above water, two rippling lines and a svelte curve ending in graceful flukes; the mark that identifies me as chattel for all to see. The mark that makes it impossible for me to ever hide.

The surgeons bear them too. They were as I was once. They lay on this very table, having their souls cut away so that one day they could train to inflict the same pain on others. I know they did not have a choice, it was this or the farms – but the betrayal still hurts.

The cauterizing force against my sensitized nerve endings is too much to bear, I slip away once more, the scent of my own burning flesh carrying me into sleep.

________________

A strange face hovers above me, a woman so beautiful I have to blink a few times before I’m certain she’s real. My eyesight is very poor, and she’s blurry around the edges, but a radiant smile consumes her striking features.

I know, before she even opens her mouth. “Mom?”

“Hello, my love.” She doesn’t touch me, but her melodic voice wraps me up in its warmth.

I can’t look away from her. I always dreamed I might find family in the land farms, but it had been an empty hope. I never truly believed it would happen.

Her eyes are the color of kelp, mottled greens both light and dark, “You are more perfect than I even imagined.” She murmurs, tears on her dark eyelashes. “What did they name you?”

“Viviane.” My voice is small and hoarse. We are taken from our parents at birth, cared for in an aquatic nursery until we are old enough for the whip. The nurses there are the only mermaids allowed to keep their tails into adulthood, deemed too homely to be sold into brothels once their tears run dry. They name us, teach us about our people, and show us how to care for ourselves once we get to the farms.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” My mother whispers reverently, brushing the hair away from my face. “You look so much like your father.”

My eyes widen, “Is he here too?”

She shakes her head, sorrow seeping into her blissful expression. “He ran dry a few years ago.”

I need no explanation. Women can still fetch a price once they stop producing pearls – men cannot. The second they stop being useful to the pack they are eliminated. It’s true there are some male brothels in the pack cities, but the demand is very low and only the most handsome men are sold.

“He left you this.” My mother pulls a gold chain from her own neck. “I had to bribe the guards to let me keep it – convinced them it was worthless. It was passed down in your father’s family for generations, long before we were taken from the ocean.”

I reach weakly for the necklace, a delicate pendant dangles from its center, mother of pearl in the shape of a nautilus shell. “What was his name?”

“Nereus.” She answers softly, helping me hold the chain, “And I’m Marina. You can call me that if Mom–”

“I want to call you Mom.” My words are so quiet I’m surprised I was able to interrupt her.

My mother smiles incandescently, “I’d like that.”

I clutch the necklace to my heart. “I’ve never owned anything before.”

“This is only the first, my little angelfish.” She says, “I’m going to get us out of here.”

_______________

Three Months Later

Lights glitter in the distance and the wind carries sounds of far off revelry to our ears. A full moon looms overhead, marking the wolf shifters’ monthly festival. On these nights the guards are minimal, their shifts frequently changing so that each member of the pack has a chance to partake.

It took a month and a half for me to grow used to my legs, for the wounds to heal and pain to fade. Learning to walk came next: an awkward, clumsy process to achieve something that seems ridiculously easy now. Mother wanted to leave then, but I begged her to stay until after Isla’s surgery.

I found Isla’s father – he’d been easy to identify. Both share hair the color of flames, not merely red, but orange, yellow, gold and everything in between. I told him about my sweet friend, and together the three of us planned an escape for when Isla finally joined us.

But Isla never came.

Her birthday came and went, the days passing until it was clear she had not survived her surgery. We waited a full month, her father holding out hope until it was impossible to do so any longer. Tonight we leave, grief still fresh in our hearts but our minds determined to reach freedom in Isla’s memory.

My vision has deteriorated over the last few months, my exhausted eyes unable to bear the sunlight after so many years in the dim light of the blood sea. It is easier at night, I can see the guard slumped against the perimeter wall fairly clearly. We are still many yards off, but I can almost make out the longing expression on his face as he gazes toward the festival.

The Reapers have left only one sentry per watch tower, and one guard to patrol each wall. The walls are incredibly high and fortified by wire fencing at the top, but other mermaids have been known to escape here, in a secluded stretch of the Southern facade where the bricks are jagged enough to climb.

The guard is a complication, but not an insurmountable one. Isla’s father sneaks up on him from behind, catching him in a chokehold while Mother and I dart past. He holds on until the man slips into unconsciousness, before dropping his body like a sack of bricks and joining the climb.

At the top we wrench up the wires far enough to crawl beneath, the adults struggling far more than I to get through. Hope – actual, genuine hope – blooms in my chest when our feet touch the ground on the opposite side. My heart is pounding violently against my ribcage as we take off at a run.

Just when I think we must be out of sight, a deafening alarm blares from the labor camp, shrill and unceasing. Abject horror floods my veins, this can’t be happening – we’re so close.

“Faster!” My mother calls out to us, “They know we’re gone!”