Tony Statovici sat on the rotted wooden dock, his boots dangling over the edge, his rod bent only slightly from the weight of the line. The night air smelled of damp earth and freshwater weeds.

He’d come here to think, like always. The farm noise, the barking dogs, his father’s constant lălăit — all of it faded the moment he cast his line into the black glass of the water.

The first tug was gentle. A nibble. He ignored it.

Then the rod jerked.

Hard.

Tony’s hands flew to the reel, his boots scraping against the wood as he planted them for leverage. The line screamed out, cutting through the surface like a blade.

What the hell—

He pulled. The rod bent into a deep, dangerous arc, the tip nearly touching the dark water. Whatever was down there, it was massive. He’d never felt anything like it.

His arms burned. His jaw clenched. He pulled again, grunting, the wood beneath him groaning in protest.

The surface broke.

Water exploded upward, a dark shape twisting in the moonlight, and Tony stumbled back, nearly losing his grip on the rod.

She was beautiful.

And she was furious.

The mermaid—if that’s what she was—hung there, suspended in the shallow water, her torso rising from the pond like some pagan idol. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, slick with droplets that caught the moon like scattered stars. Her hair was black as oil, tangled and wet, clinging to her shoulders and her chest. Her eyes—viper green, no, purple, glowing like embers in the dark—fixed on him with unmistakable rage.

The hook was embedded in her lower lip.

She reached up, wincing, and tore it free with a sharp, brutal tug. A bead of dark blood rolled down her chin and dropped into the water.

Tony’s mouth opened. No sound came out.