She had to think of something—and fast. “Well, I didn’t get you a goldfish, exactly,” she said, knowing she had to play this just right to avoid a major Dawson meltdown that would result in her losing her phone privileges or getting grounded and having to skip the swim meet the next day.
“Another kind of fish?” Dawson asked. “I miss Mr. Bubbles so much. He was the best.”
Now Shelly felt even worse. She loved animals of all kinds, but the truth was that Mr. Bubbles had been pretty dull. He never did much of anything. His most dramatic act was doing a lifeless bob and taking a ride down their plumbing. “Not a fish,” she started. But his face fell, so she plowed forward. “Even better. It doesn’t even need food. And you won’t have to clean its tank.”
He scrunched up his face. “What kind of pet doesn’t need food? Or a clean tank?”
“And it won’t die,” she added.
He frowned. “Like a vampire fish?”
She shook her head. “No, not a vampire fish.”
“Fine, I give up,” said Dawson. “What kind of pet did you get me?”
“This kind.” She pulled the nautilus from her pocket. It shone under the kitchen lights.
His eyes lit up. “Cool! A shell! I love it!” He grabbed it and clutched it to his chest.
Shelly breathed a sigh of relief. She was safe. Now she needed to eat dinner, and then she had to figure out which outfit to wear the next day, but her mind was on the swim meet. Shelly made herself a turkey sandwich, hurried up to her room to eat it, and got ready for bed. She laid out her outfit on a trunk at the foot of her bed and flicked off the lights.
The second Shelly’s head hit the pillow, she fell fast asleep. Her bedroom dissolved, and darkness stole her away. Everything that had happened that day—the aquarium field trip, the wave snatching her from the catwalk, her almost drowning, Enrique saving her—had worn her out.
But even her dream was tense. She was swimming in the school pool but was swimming in place as her competitors raced past her in a wave of water. Judy passed her, then Kendall.
She woke spluttering. “No, I need to win!” The words escaped her throat. She took a few deep, ragged breaths, then checked her digital clock, which showed it was ten. “Only a dream,” she whispered. She began to close her eyes, lowering her head back onto her pillow.
Then she noticed the strange light. Pulsing. Yellow. Eerie.
It broke up the darkness with staccato flashes. It was coming from the room across the hall. Dawson’s room. She blinked and sat up, wondering if she was seeing things, but it was still there. Still flashing. She pinched her cheek and winced. Nope. She was awake. The light was real.
Mesmerized, Shelly climbed from her bed. Her feet hit the carpet. Her blanket, which was soaked with sweat from her nightmare, slipped away from her body. She shuddered, as if a cold wind whipping off the ocean had hit her. The room smelled like salt and seaweed—most likely from the canals near the townhouse. Goose pimples pricked her skin, from the cold, but also from a sudden fear. The light continued to pulse, breaking the darkness. Silently, she followed it.
When she padded into the hallway, the pulsing light grew brighter. Her toes sank into the thick carpet her mother had installed when they moved into the townhouse. It was a small way to make the new place feel more like home. Her mother’s door was down the hall, cracked open. Shelly considered waking her up. But lately when Shelly tried to get her attention, her mother just seemed annoyed. Though Dawson’s door was shut, the glow lit up the frame and keyhole.
Usually, she avoided the little barnacle’s room like an outbreak of Ich, the parasitic disease that made fish grow slimy white spots. She hesitated at his door. She took a breath, held her nose with her fingers against the fishy stench, then pushed the door open.
In the pulsing light, her eyes scanned her brother’s room. She took a step, then shrank back. Her bare toes had touched cold water. Puddles, leading to his twin bed, soaked the carpet.
“Dawson?” she whispered, trying to gauge if he was awake. No one answered.
She took in the small room. Old toys littered every surface. The contents of Dawson’s closet spilled out onto the floor, revealing his half-hearted attempt to obey their mom’s insistent orders to clean up his room—or else! Dawson lay asleep, his small body curled up in bed. His hair was mussed from tossing and turning, and drool clung to his chin.
There, resting in the palm of his tiny hand, was the source of the pulsing light.
The nautilus.
Its pink-yellow spiral glowed brighter.
Intrigued, Shelly approached it, her feet squelching as they pressed into the drenched carpet, one step after the other. Reaching out her hand, Shelly could see the delicate flesh of her fingertips illuminated by its strange glow. As if in response to her presence, the shell flashed faster and grew so bright that she had to squint. She froze when she heard a voice.
“My dear, sweet child. Go ahead. Don’t be afraid.” The voice was rich, and kind, and as deep as the sea itself. A voice full of laughter, it seemed to emanate from inside the shell.
“H-hello?” Shelly whispered, unable to take her eyes from the vibrant nautilus.
“Go ahead, dear . . . take it. It was my gift for you. Go on. Take it. Take it!”
Shelly touched the nautilus.
And fell through the floor.
Cold water enveloped Shelly as she plunged.
She spiraled down through what appeared to be tangles of kelp. What was happening to her? Where was she going? Finally, she somersaulted to a stop in a dim underwater cavern.
She began to swim, holding her breath, not sure where she was going but knowing she needed to find an exit, to find air. But seaweed snagged at her ankles, trapping her.
“Leave here . . . turn back!” came a tiny, pained voice as clear as day, even that far underwater.
Shelly looked down and saw faces on the seaweed. And with her heart racing and air running out, she realized it wasn’t seaweed at all, but withered gray life-forms with sallow eyes and gaping, contorted mouths. They were nothing she had ever studied or seen in the aquarium. They couldn’t be talking to her, though. She must have imagined it.
A current gripped her and sucked her down.
She tried to swim against it, but it was too strong. Her lungs ached, fit to burst.
Suddenly, an enormous crystal ball clamped around her, and her mouth opened in a silent scream. But then the water drained from the enclosure, and she was able to breathe, though she spluttered and spat and pounded her fists on the curved crystal.
“Help! Let me out!” she yelled. Everything looked distorted through the glass. She could barely make out the underwater cavern. Glass bottles lined the rough-hewn walls, and there were glowing anemones and the eyes of those . . . things. She gasped as something huge, bulbous, and black swam past her. What was that?
“Lose something, dear?” The same deep, rich voice she’d heard in Dawson’s bedroom emanated from the shadowy corner of the cavern. “So coy!” A black tentacle shot out of the gloom and rapped on the glass. Shelly cowered, fear gripping her.
“Wh-what do you want?” she gasped.
Suddenly, the black tentacle reappeared, unfurling to show off an empty coffee cup.
Shelly felt her cheeks turn hot. She knew tossing that cup in the water had been a huge mistake. She knew it had been wrong. But she had done it anyway. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “I-I didn’t mean to!”