Born of Water

A mysterious shipwreck could unlock ancient powers… or send her to a watery grave.

Targa MacAuley feels more at home on dry land than in the watery realm of her mermaid ancestors. After 17 years on solid ground, she fears she’ll never grow into the creature her mother hoped she’d become. To keep her mom’s homesickness and true identity under wraps, Targa signs on for a mysterious salvage dive in the Baltic Sea.

Her plan to blend in with the rest of the crew is spoiled when she catches the eye of a handsome local. A freak accident and a strange connection to the ancient shipwreck below attract even more unwanted attention. With both her mom’s secret—and her life—in danger, Targa must finally find the courage to unleash the currents surging deep within.

Born of Water is the first book in The Elemental Origins Series, and won the Gold Medal in the Readers’ Favorite Awards in Young Adult Fantasy. If you like new twists on mermaid lore, simmering romance, and close-knit mother-daughter bonds, then you’ll love A.L. Knorr’s nautical adventure. Embark on a deeper dive into the story's lore with The Wreck of Sybellen, a companion novel included with the book.

Mom?" I spluttered around my toothpaste foam as I stood in our living room in my pajamas with my toothbrush in hand. The morning news was on and beside the anchors heavily make-upped face was a photograph of movie-star Rachel Montgomery partying on the deck of a yacht with her entourage. I was getting ready for the last day of the school year when I heard the words "storm," "yacht," and "rescue," come from the television. During the week, we always kept our small screen TV tuned to the news in the mornings. Most of the time I ignored it, but not when there was news like this.

"When we return," the anchor was saying, "more details on Miss Montgomery's hair-raising rescue from our own Devil's Eye Cove." Then it cut to commercial.

"What is it, Targa?" I heard Mom through the screen door as she replied from the driveway where she was loading her work truck.

"There's been a wreck!" I managed to get out before toothpaste suds dribbled down my chin. I ran into the kitchen, spat in the sink, and grabbed a towel to clean my face. It took me no time at all to get from the living room to our kitchen because they were the same room, the only division was a small kitchen island.

We live in a renovated trailer. Since my dad passed away when I was eight – which was almost nine years ago now – our quality of life has backslid. Mom didn't work at that time so we could no longer afford to stay in the two story we had in the suburbs. We downsized to a doublewide located in the trailer park at the edge of Saltford, the small Canadian east coast town where we live. The trailer park is pretty, as trailer parks go. The residents care for their properties and small gardens as though they were Italian villas. 'Trailers don't have to be trashy,' is the unofficial community motto. If I'm really honest, Mom and I are the worst residents in the park if property beauty is the measuring stick. Our place is the very definition of a trashy trailer. We have no garden or even so much as a geranium in a flowerpot. We have gravel instead of a lawn and the concrete steps leading up to our front door have a menacing crack right down the middle. Don't think that we're destitute though, my mom works her ass off to make sure that I have whatever I need. But the state of our home has never been a priority for her.

As the commercials played in the background, I rinsed our stovetop espresso maker out in the sink. I lifted the lid on the overflowing compost bucket to dump the old grounds when the lid snapped off its hinges and the bucket shook. Slimy onion skin and rotting orange peel splatted onto the ground and on top of my bare foot. I sighed and held my breath as I picked up the stinking mess and took the bucket outside to dump it.

It's my job to make note of anything that requires maintenance. Mom spends too much time working to worry about the trailer. According to her, as long as we are warm in the winter and have electricity and running water, we live like royalty. My mom—Mira MacAuley—is the opposite of materialistic. She's so far in the other direction that she can't relate to people who spend their time investing in art for their houses, thousand-count cotton sheets, or a nice vehicle. She doesn't judge people for their choices, she's just bored out of her mind to find herself in conversations revolving around these things. Consequently, she has a tough time making and keeping friends. Not that she cares. Sometimes, I think I'm the only person in the whole world who matters to her at all. She cares about my friends, but only because I care about them. If someone is important to me then they're important to her, too.

I brought back the empty bucket, rinsed it out and put it back under the sink before continuing to make the espresso. I put fresh coffee grounds in the reservoir and twisted the top and bottom together. I lit our sixty-year-old gas stove with a match and set the espresso maker over the blue flame, then I peeked out the front window. Mom was just about finished loading her gear into her work truck. The boxes of diving equipment that she lugged around were just part of the many props she needed to keep the illusion for her job intact. They were also the bane of her life.

Every black box was stamped with the words BLUEJACKET UNDERWATER RECOVERY & SALVAGE. The same was written on the side of the truck that Simon, her boss, had given to her as part of her new contract. The vehicle was a perk that no other employee had and is a testament to her value. The ironic thing is that of all of the Bluejacket employees, my mom needs the truck the least.

I smiled as she threw the last box in the back and the whole truck shook. It must have contained the diving weights. She slammed the hatch and looked up with her crystal blue eyes to see me watching her. She gave me a sheepish grin. I shook my head at her.

The espresso was bubbling and as I went back to the stove to pour it, a wave of sadness washed over me. I know how much she hates the facade she has to present to the world, and I also know she does it because she loves me.

Sprinting up the drive and taking the porch steps in a single bound, she came into the house. She closed the door behind her with too much force and I winced as the trailer shook. My mother is stronger than anyone I know and she shows our property the same disdain she shows her useless diving equipment.

"Really, Mom?" I held out her java. “Tens of thousands of dollars in company equipment that Simon has entrusted to your care and you treat it like it's a wrecking ball."

"Was there a question in there?" she asked before shooting her espresso like it was whiskey and handed back the empty cup. "Did you say there's been a wreck?"

I jerked my chin towards the television as I took her cup back to the sink to rinse it. The news jingle announced that commercials were over and the report was about to continue. We both watched, me from the small kitchen island and Mom from our tiny entry way.

"A-list actress Rachel Montgomery and her entourage were sailing a sport yacht off the coast yesterday when they became caught in high winds and thirty-foot waves," the news anchor said. "The yacht struck rocks and was wrecked on Devil's Eye, like so many boats before it." The anchor was supposed to be impartial, but he was also a local and clearly of the opinion that Rachel Montgomery and her friends had been galactically stupid.

Devil's Eye Cove is a big bay encircled by jagged rock formations. It's less than five miles from Saltford beach, the main beach that all the tourists flock to in the summertime. The Cove is infamous for its powerful currents, big waves, and sudden storms. The shape of the cove on a map looks like an angry eye, earning its official name. As if Devil's Eye wasn't sinister enough, the combination of violent waves crashing on jagged rocks had also earned the cove the nickname The Boneyard. Of course, only the locals call it that. Not a summer has gone by that I don't remember some unfortunate tourist getting into trouble there. They were drawn by the rugged beauty and the privacy it offered. Locals know better so they never go out to the Cove. But in spite of the warnings the city of Saltford has peppered their tourist information with, tourists still go.

"Idiots," Mom muttered under her breath. While she watched the report, she raked her long black hair from her face and up into a mess of a ponytail. She grabbed a full bottle of water from the multipack on the floor near the door and chugged the whole thing in one go. My mother drinks more water than a racehorse.

"No one was seriously injured," the anchor concluded. "But the yacht was completely destroyed and everything on board was lost. Authorities continue to warn the public to stay away from Devil's Eye Cove..."