Sea Fever (11 page)

outpace his thoughts. Could not escape Regina’s image, the smooth skin

of her arms and chest, the gold cross glinting below her collarbone, her

scowl. “I can’t give Nick a mother who’s around all the time. The least I

can do is spare him some guy who won’t stick.”

Dylan blew out a noisy gust of air. He would not stick. His kind

never did. If he cared for her . . . His thoughts tangled like seaweed. He

did not care for anyone. It was only fair for him to leave her now,

before— how had she put it?— she became attached to him.

Only, of course, he could not go.

He rode the rolling waves toward the deserted shore. Conn had

charged him to discover what the demons wanted on World’s End. For

the past two weeks, Dylan had eavesdropped, observed, and tramped all

over the island, hoping to find some trace of demonkind, some clue to

their purpose.

To the immortal seaborn, the time was nothing. But Dylan was dying

by minutes, trapped in his human body, trapped by his human family,

trapped on this fucking island, forced to watch Regina joke and work

behind the counter, her long slim legs, her strong firm arms, always in

motion, always just beyond his reach.

Frustration drove him onto the rocks. He hauled himself onto the

stony beach as the surf exploded around him. The water drained away,

and Dylan stood naked in the foam, his webbed toes gripping the sand,

his sealskin swirling around his ankles.

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He stooped to drag his pelt from the sea; froze.

Something was wrong. He could sense it. Smell it. He straightened

slowly.

The air was thick and still. Under the August sun, the island gave off

heat like a beast breathing. Dylan tested and tasted the wind, feeling the

tickle of ash in the back of his throat.

His hackles rose. Demon.

In the air.

On the island.

Among humans.

Dylan’s lips pulled back from his teeth. Retrieving his clothes from

their hiding place, he began to dress.

Finally, he could hunt.

* * *

Regina lay cold and curled on her side, clinging to sleep like a

blanket. Pain in her head, in her cramped legs and shoulders. Burning in

her throat. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick and swollen. She tried to

swallow, and the fire in her throat woke her.

Oh my God, oh my God . . .

And then, Nicky.

Instinct surged, quicker than memory. Her muscles tensed. She had

to run. To fight. To protect Nicky.

The thought jolted her eyelids open.

Dark. She was somewhere dark and gritty, damp and cold. She

began to shake. Basement? No. There was an outside feel to the air, an

outside smell, earth and rock and water. She could hear it, water lapping.

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Where was she? Where was Jericho? Why was it so dark? She

blinked, straining her eyes against the blackness. Even on a cloudy night,

she should see a hint of moon, the reflection of the water.

She struggled to sit, pushing herself upright with her palms against

the cold, flat surface, taking cautious inventory. She wasn’t tied up. That

was good. She had all her clothes on. Even better. Despite various scrapes

and bruises, she didn’t think she had been raped. Yet.

She swallowed convulsively. Agony.

Her cracked lips parted without sound. Her heart pounded.

Must not cry out. Must not scream. Jericho might be nearby.

Sleeping? What if he was only waiting for her to wake up before he came

back to do—

Her mind stumbled, teetering on the edge of panic. He could do

whatever he wanted to her. Unless she found a way to stop him. To

escape.

A tiny sound escaped her bruised throat. Her scrapes burned, bloody

in the dark. She bit her lip hard, digging her nails into the gritty floor,

curling her hands into fists, shuddering against the cold.

Think of Nick. Don’t panic. Think.

She was hurt in the dark. She was alone. For now.

So. She better make the most of the time she had.

She crawled shakily to her knees.

* * *

As Caleb drove inland, the oversized cottages of the summer people

gradually gave way to the older, smaller houses of year-round residents.

Detective Evelyn Hall, State Criminal Investigation Division, rode

shotgun beside him. Hall, square and weathered as a barn, had come with

the evidence team. Caleb’s surprise at seeing her step off the ferry must

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have shown, because she’d said, “Seems women on your island can’t

catch a break.”

Caleb had smiled grimly, acknowledging the dig. Only months after

he accepted the position of police chief on World’s End, Maggie had

been attacked and the selkie Gwyneth’s naked, dead body had been

discovered on the beach. Now Regina was missing.

Evelyn Hall had suspected Caleb in the earlier attacks. But she was

the only female officer available to him, and if— when— they found

Regina Barone, Caleb wanted a woman with him.

Hall nodded out the Jeep window at a soaring A-frame perched

above a rock face. “Nice little place.”

Her tone was still dry, but Caleb recognized and responded to the

olive branch. “The old quarry’s a swimming hole now— or a skating

pond, in winter. Lot of vacation homes around here.”

“You said we were headed to a homeless camp.”

Caleb nodded. “On the other side. Used to be a waste dump for the

mining company.”

They passed more homes, the McMansions ceding ground to

dilapidated cabins, the terraced landscaping replaced by abandoned

appliances and rusting pickups. Not all the island had benefited from high

lobster prices and rising property taxes. Here, Caleb knew, were

households that had fallen off the beaten track and out of the mainstream,

adults inclined to drink or drugs, children subsisting on deer meat and

short lobster.

Which brought them to the homeless encampment, strewn like

garbage between the boulders. Waste disposal was a problem on the

islands. Anything transported on had to be hauled off or burned. As a

result, there were plenty of materials lying around for reuse. Caleb

counted several structures built of plywood, cardboard, and scrap metal,

and one honest-to-God tent pitched under the pines, its faded blue nylon

spotted with mildew.

The men around the fire— five, six, seven, not bad odds— were as

ragged and seedy as their shelters.

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Caleb got out first. Evelyn Hall waited by the Jeep, the door open

and the shotgun within easy reach.

A fat, muscled man sporting a red bandana and a graying ponytail

stood as Caleb approached.

Caleb greeted him. “Bull.”

“Chief. You checking up on Lonnie?”

Lonnie, the clinic patient, who claimed he was possessed by the

devil.

“How’s he doing?” Caleb asked.

Bull shrugged. “See for yourself.”

Caleb found Lonnie in the ring around the fire, his elbows on his

knees, his eyes on the smoke. He didn’t look up. In the good news

department, he didn’t levitate off his boulder and start spitting pea soup

either.

“Make sure he takes his meds,” Caleb said.

“I’m not his fucking nurse,” Bull said.

“Me either,” Caleb said evenly. “I want to speak with Jericho.”

“He’s sick.”

Caleb’s gaze traveled over the encampment. “Mind if I look

around?”

Bull crossed his thick arms over his massive chest. “Got a search

warrant?”

“Got a camping permit?” Caleb asked evenly.

“Fuck,” Bull said.

“I’ll take that as permission to search,” Caleb said.

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He regarded the dark opening of the nearest shelter, sprouting from

the shadow of the trees like a giant fungus, and his mind flashed back to

hot white streets and sharp black shadows, blank doorways and blind

windows,snipers on rooftops. His belly tightened. He was glad to have

Hall and her shotgun at his back.

He ducked inside the structure, a finger of sweat tracing down his

spine.

A stench compounded of beer and urine, sweat and mold, hit him.

No Jericho. Nobody at all. No body. Caleb didn’t know whether to be

sorry or glad.

He wiped his face. And heard a rustle in the leaves outside, a crackle

in the stillness. Squirrel? Deer? His instincts jumped on high alert. His

hand as he reached for his gun trembled. Shit.

Light slanted beneath the rear wall where plywood rested on an

exposed root. Caleb eyed the crack. Barely room for someone there to

crawl out the back while he came in the front. Not two someones, not a

man dragging a woman. (Bound, unconscious, dead.) But that rustle . . .

He backed out of the structure— there wasn’t room to turn around—and signaled to Hall to hold her position. Would she understand? She

nodded without speaking and leveled the shotgun to her shoulder.

“Hey,” Bull protested.

“Shut up,” she said.

Caleb eased around the side of the shelter, his gaze sweeping the

woods and slope behind. Tough going if he had to give chase. Leaves

crunched. A bush rattled. He raised his weapon.

And came face to face with his brother, Dylan.

Caleb exhaled. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Dylan’s black gaze lifted from the muzzle of the gun to Caleb’s face.

“Your job.”

Caleb’s job was protecting the island. He didn’t have time for this

shit. “Where is she?”

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“Who?”

“Regina Barone. Have you seen her?”

There was an instant’s utter stillness. Some expression flickered on

Dylan’s face and was gone too quickly to be identified. “Two days ago,”

he said coolly. As if it didn’t matter. As if she didn’t matter. “Why?”

“She’s gone.”

Dylan was rigid. “Where?”

“I wish to hell I knew,” Caleb said, more honestly than he intended.

Dylan’s face was white, his mouth a thin, grim line. “Hell has more

to do with this than either of us could wish.”

Caleb frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I must find her,” Dylan said.

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Eight

“YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE,” CALEB SAID.

Dylan raised his eyebrows, fighting the pressure in his chest.

“Obviously not. Since I came back.”

He could hardly breathe. The urgency that had driven him from the

sea surged back. Only now the stink of something wrong, the stench of

evil, was sharper. Stronger.

Regina was gone.

He made himself like stone, like flint, like the prince’s tower at Caer

Subai. Cold and immovable. Emotion would not bring her back.

“What are you doing here?” Caleb asked bluntly.

Dylan relaxed his fists; forced himself to speak coolly. “I followed

the demon spoor here. If they have her, I will find her.”

If they held her . . . He did not like to imagine what the demons

could do to her smooth skin, her strong spirit.

“What would demons want with a twenty-nine-year-old cook?”

Caleb asked skeptically.

Dylan shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t know. They should not

have taken her in any case. She is warded.”

“Warded?”

“She wears the triskelion on her wrist— the wardens’ mark. It

should have protected her.”

“From demons maybe,” Caleb said. “A tattoo won’t stop a human

kidnapper. She could have been grabbed by this Jones character.”

“Have you found him? Questioned him?”

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“Not yet.”

“Then I will.”

“Forget it,” Caleb said. “This is a police investigation. You can’t

interfere.”

Dylan suppressed the snarl in his throat; stared down his nose

instead. “And if he is possessed, you can’t help. You need me, little

brother.”

Caleb didn’t like that. Dylan could tell. Too bad. “Right,” Caleb said

tersely at last. “Let’s go.”

Dylan followed him around the corner of the ratty shelter. Stopped.

The half-dozen humans collected around the fire did not concern him.

However, the large woman with the gun standing beside Caleb’s

Cherokee could be a problem.

She swung the long barrel toward him. “Who’s that?” “Don’t say

anything,” Caleb said to Dylan.

Fine with him. He had had enough of humans and talking in the past

two weeks. But there was that gun . . .

“Detective Hall,” Caleb said. “My brother, Dylan.”

Dylan met her gaze and smiled at her slowly, deliberately, watching

in satisfaction as the barrel of the shotgun wavered and dipped. Not quite

enough.

“What’s he doing here?” she asked.

“Assisting in the investigation,” Caleb said.