The Cold

The moment Cyrus' head breaks the surface of the waves, the song goes silent. In a panic, he fights for the surface, not able to remember why he is in the sea, let alone with his shoes on. But then a long-fingered hand snatches him by the ankle, dragging him down until he is sure he is miles from the surface. Then it releases him, letting him float as his lungs strain against the pressure and lack of oxygen.
A pulsing light appears in three places around him and his lips part in surprise.
Three beautiful women float around him. One has hair of bright, fiery hair that glows in the darkness, roiling like the red sea, her eyes reflect the light, blue and bright against shockingly pale skin. The next has hair like a wave of shadows, a cloud of ink, her skin lusciously dark, the color of deep, freshly turned earth, her green eyes soft-looking. The last has perfectly tanned skin, her chocolate brown hair floating around her face.
All wore long serpent-like tails where their legs should be.
They glow and pulse like fireflies in the dark, the thick scales a little less bright. Gold and copper, they twine through the current like eels, keeping them still. Their beautiful faces suddenly stretch into horrible, menacing grins, sharp-toothed and wider than their faces should allow.
They twist, and dart for Cyrus.
He screams, sending a surge of bubbles flying to the surface as they attack, their fingers sharpening into claws. With the last of his breath, Cyrus screams for help, but by the time his lungs begin to fill with the ink that is the sea, the three horrible and beautiful women have ensured his fate.
No one could see the ocean turn red that evening.
No one in the morning cared about the half-finished bottle of cheap beer left on the shore.
When nearly a week later Cyrus' body washed up on a cove three miles south, going against the currents to land on a crowded beach.
His chest torn open, and the only thing missing...
was his heart.