She was floating; memories hovered around her, thin iridescent bubbles of nebulous light and darkness. She reached out and took one into her hand, looked into it and saw the whole of it. And then she was inside it. 

She knew it was just a dream, yet the chill of the ocean water against her flesh felt so real; it mirrored the frigid, blank slate of her consciousness.  In this place, in this memory, there was only need and hunger, and nothing else.

He was called Tapu.  He was the changeling, the replacement, for the one she wasn’t able to save.  For James.

Tapu was a fisherman.  Bronzed to a deep, smooth brown by years of exposure to the sun and sea wind, he was board and tall – cautious with the deliberate gentleness of those cursed with the blessing of immense physical strength.  Yet, still, the storm claimed him, swallowing him up in one sweeping gulp as if he were nothing but a speck to be cleansed away. 

The same as it always was.

She would find them thus and pluck them from death’s grasp, claiming them for her own as if she was a goddess of sea and due a tithe for sparing their lives.  Granted, most of them, dazed by the touch of death and then stunned by the shock of her, believed her exactly that. 

It made it all easier, made them more ready to give her what she needed – but she knew the lie.  She buried it deep, and went through the motions with methodical precision.  Each movement.  Each glance.  Each breath.  Each touch.  All of it – a designed seduction.

“Love me.”

Tapu fell faster than most.  She gave him the kiss, then, her back pressed into the sand beneath his heated weight, she watched the grey and white clouds wisp across the pure blue expanse of sky overhead.  He whispered urgent words into her ear.  She pondered the beauty of sunbeams that sliced though a break in the misty mounds.  He caressed her flesh and made hushed, urgent promises. She listened to the whispers of the waves.

The ritual was soon complete.  Her need was satiated and the ocean tugged at her human toes, coaxing her to return home. 

She fled.

He waded recklessly into the rolling surf after her. 

She paused, an offering of gratitude, and then slid beneath the water’s surface.

He howled, begging her to stay with him, weeping as the waves crashed against his powerful chest, forcing him backwards.  Back towards safety. But he was strong.  He fought to stand fixed as he screamed out to her.

It wasn’t his fault.  He didn’t know that she always left.

The same as it always was.

“James?”

“Yes?”

 “This time … will I die?”

“I don’t know those things, ancient one.”

“I think … I think I might.”