Sea Fever (4 page)

have something to show you.”

Dylan surveyed the chart covering the surface of the desk. “Since

when do we depend on human maps?”

“It suits my purpose,” Conn said.

“Which is?”

Instead of replying, Conn spread his hands over the desk. He

concentrated his gift, adding his little findings to the information already

imbued in the map. Gradually the image came alive, colors winking into

being like stars in the night sky, forming streams and clusters of light.

27

Dylan’s brows flicked up. “Impressive. What is it?”

Conn closed his fists, ignoring the faint, residual headache that

exercising his magic always gave him. The map pulsed and swirled with

color. “The gray”— great swathes of it—“indicates human habitation.

The blue represents our people.”

A few, too few, thousand scattered points of light, almost lost in the

vastness of the oceans.

“The children of earth are here.” Conn’s finger followed the trail of

green along the mountain ranges, tapped the sacred places of the sidhe.

“Demons here.” A sweep of his hand indicated the children of fire,

spattered like blood across fault lines and land forms.

Dylan stepped closer to the desk, narrowing his eyes in

concentration. “I do not see the children of air on your map.”

“Because they are not there. Angelic intervention is less common

than most humans believe. Or would welcome,” Conn said dryly.

“Besides, it is the demons’ activity that concerns me.”

“Because of Gwyneth.”

Conn’s rage welled, deep and slow as ice. Six weeks ago, the selkie

Gwyneth of Hiort had been lured to land, stripped of her pelt, tortured,

and killed by a demon in human form.

“Because they murdered one of us,” Conn agreed, “and because they

attempted to cast blame on the humans. I will not be tricked into taking

sides in the demons’ war on heaven and humankind.”

Dylan frowned at the map. The darkness Conn had sensed earlier

was a red blot off the coast of Maine. “You may not have a choice. If the

demons upset the balance—”

“Margred restored the balance when she bound Gwyneth’s murderer

in the sea.”

Dylan raised one eyebrow. “A life for a life?”

28

“After a fashion.” Elementals were immortal. The selkie would be

reborn in the sea; the demon was trapped for eternity. A fair enough

exchange, in Conn’s view. “But Margred’s action carries its own

consequences.”

“You think she is in danger?” Dylan asked sharply.

“I think she could be.”

“Revenge?”

Conn considered. The demons understood justice; they were not

ruled by it. Revenge would certainly play a part in their response. But

they were driven by more practical considerations. “Say, rather, that

Margred’s demonstration of power may have put her at risk.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“She married your brother.”

Dylan’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “Unfortunately. She is

human now. Which means her choices and her fate are really none of my

business.”

Or yours. The implication hung in the air, unspoken.

“Unless she carries your brother’s child,” Conn said evenly.

Dylan’s pale face turned white. There were feelings there, Conn

thought. Feelings he would not hesitate to use for his own purposes.

“What difference would that make?” Dylan asked.

“Your mother’s blood was strong. Her gift was powerful. There are

songs—” Prophecy or history? Conn wondered. Impossible to tell from

the whales’ song. The great mammals had even less concept of time than

selkies. “There are stories that a daughter of Atargatis’s lineage could

forever change the balance of power and the destiny of her people.”

“A daughter.” Dylan’s eyes were black. “Not a son?”

Conn sympathized with his disappointment. Better for them both if

Atargatis’s power had devolved to a son. To Dylan.

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“The songs say a daughter.”

“Then . . .” Dylan scowled, still regarding the red-tinged map of

Maine. “My sister?”

Conn shook his head. “Both your brother and your sister are human.

So far the demons have considered them unworthy of notice. But if your

brother were to have a child—”

“Or if I did.”

“Yes. I had hoped—” Conn broke off. He did not indulge in hope

any more than anger. “The combination of your mother’s blood and

Margred’s gift might be regarded as an advantage for our people. Or as a

threat by the demons.”

“So what do you want me to do? Tell my brother he shouldn’t fuck

his wife?”

Conn thought about it. “Would he listen to you?”

“No.”

Conn shrugged. “Just as well. Our numbers are declining. We need

children. We need this child.”

Dylan sneered. “Assuming he can get Margred pregnant.”

“Assuming their child is selkie. And female. Yes.”

“You assume a great deal.”

Conn’s mouth twitched in a rare smile. “True.” And few of his court

dared to speak the truth to him. “Yet something draws the demons to

World’s End. I need you to find out what.”

* * *

Dylan stared at his prince, his heart thundering in his ears. For a

moment he wondered if he’d heard Conn correctly. “That’s a warden’s

job.”

30

The prince’s gaze was clear and light as frost, deep and measureless

as the sea. “Do you refuse me?”

“I— No, my lord.” He was startled, not stupid. “But why not send

one of them?”

The wardens were Conn’s confidants, his elite. Chosen for their

loyalty and the strength of their gift, they kept the prince’s peace,

defending his realm from the depredations of human and demon kind.

Since he was fourteen years old, Dylan had burned to be counted as

one of them, to wear the wardens’ mark around his neck.

It had been a bitter realization to accept he was too nearly human to

have either their power or the prince’s trust.

“They do not have your knowledge of the island,” Conn said. “Or

your connection to it.”

For some reason, Dylan’s brain presented him with a picture of the

woman, the prickly one with the ward on her wrist and the tight body

humming with energy.

They were not connected, he thought. He had merely had sex with

her. He had sex with many women.

And banished the memory of her voice saying, “You’re the first in—oh, a long time.”

Conn must have taken his silence as dissent, for he said, “You grew

up there.”

Dylan dragged his mind back to the tower and the present

discussion. “Many years ago.”

“Your family lives there.”

A touchy point. “They are not my family any longer. I am selkie

now.”

The prince regarded him with cool, light eyes. “And yet you keep a

human habitation not three miles east of them.”

31

Dylan flushed. How much did Conn know? And how much did he

hold against him? “The island was my mother’s.”

“Your father built and furnished the house.”

He had not known. He told himself it did not matter. “It’s a

convenient stopping place, that’s all,” Dylan said.

“Certainly it will be,” Conn agreed. “You may need to live among

them for a time.”

Dylan’s stomach sank. “After more than twenty years, the islanders

are likely to question my sudden reappearance.”

“Not so sudden,” Conn pointed out. “You were at your brother’s

wedding.”

Something Dylan regretted now. “That’s hardly the same. I didn’t

have to talk to them.”

Or his father. Or his sister.

Sweat broke out on his lip and under his arms.

“They will want to know why I am there.”

“The humans have a story, do they not? Of the prodigal son?”

“I do not think my brother”—the older brother, the good son, the one

who stayed with his father—“will buy that explanation for my return.”

“Then you will have to offer him another one,” Conn said coolly.

“You can think of some excuse that will satisfy him.”

Unbidden, the woman appeared again in his mind’s eye, her chin

raised in the moonlight, her panties balled in her fist.

“Yes,” Dylan said slowly. “I can.”

* * *

32

Regina counted the twenties under the tray of the cash register

drawer. Forty, sixty, eighty . . .

The lunchtime rush was over, the tourists gone to catch the two

thirty ferry to the mainland. The afternoon sun slanted through the

restaurant’s faded red awning, warming the vinyl booths and scratched

wood floor. Beyondthe plate glass window, the harbor sparkled blue and

bright, boats at anchor in the quiet water.

Margred loaded glasses from an empty table into a dish pan, her

movements languid and graceful as the resident cat’s. She and Caleb had

returned from their two nights in Portland yesterday.

“So.” Regina snapped a rubber band around the pile of bills. “How

was the honeymoon?”

Margred showed her teeth in a slow, satisfied smile. “Too short.”

Regina laughed, ignoring her own wistfulness. “That’s what you get

for marrying the only cop on the island in the middle of the tourist

season. If you’d waited until September, he could have taken you on a

real honeymoon. Hawaii, maybe. Or Paris.”

“I do not want Paris.” Margred’s smile spread. “And Caleb did not

want to wait.”

Regina fought a pinch of envy. Had she ever been that happy? That

desired? That . . . confident?

“I was surprised to see his brother at the wedding,” she said.

“Dylan?” Margred cocked her head, leaning forward to wipe the

table. “Did you like him?”

“I barely talked to him.”

No, she’d just had sex with him on the beach. Really excellent sex.

But no meaningful conversation.

Her face burned.

She wasn’t looking for meaningful, Regina reminded herself. And

neither, obviously, was he. At least, not with her.

33

“He seemed to know you, though,” she added.

Margred’s rag paused. “He is Caleb’s brother.”

“From before.” Regina wiped her sweating palms on her apron. “He

said he knew you before.”

“Did he?” Margred continued her slow, even strokes on the table.

“What else did he say?”

Regina had a vision of Dylan’s face, black and bitter. “I did not

come for my brother.”

She cleared her throat. “Nothing, really. I just found it interesting.

Since you, you know, lost your memory and all.”

“Ah.”

Let it go, Regina told herself. Not your problem. None of your

business.

“So, how did you meet him?”

Margred straightened, rag in hand. “Curious?”

Regina scowled. “Concerned. Damn it, you’re my friend.”

My employee.

Cal’s wife.

“So I am. And as your friend, I am telling you to leave this alone.”

Regina closed the register drawer with a short chaching . “Fine.”

Margred’s expression softened. “I promise, there is nothing in our

relationship that Caleb could object to.”

“Does he know?” Regina asked before she could stop herself.

“Oh, yes. I have no secrets from Caleb.”

34

“Bet the memory loss thing helps with that,” Regina muttered.

“Excuse me?”

The bell over the door jingled. Jane Ivey, the owner of the island’s

gift shop, entered wearing a lumpy cardigan and the determined look of a

woman on a mission.

“What can I get you?” Regina asked.

“Here’s the bride!” Jane exclaimed as if she hadn’t spoken. “You

looked real good on Saturday, honey.”

“Thank you,” Margred said.

“That whole wedding— it was real nice,” Jane said.

Margred smiled. “Regina did it all.”

Jane’s tight brown perm quivered as she nodded. “Well, I know that.

That’s why I stopped by. The girls are coming home for Frank’s birthday

in September,” she said to Regina.

“That’s . . . great,” Regina said. Was it great? She couldn’t

remember how well Jane got along with her absent children. Sons stayed

on the island, took over their fathers’ lobstering business or bought boats

of their own. But daughters moved Away, seeking education,

opportunities, husbands.

Sometimes they came back.

“We never thought when Frank had that episode last winter that he’d

make it to his sixty-fifth,” Jane said, clutching her purse. “But he did, the

old coot. Anyway, they’re all coming, Trish and Ed and Erica and the

grandkids. We’re having a big party. And I want you to cater it.”

Regina felt a spurt of satisfaction, warm and sweet as biting into

pastry filling. She knew her food was good. But she didn’t get many

opportunities to show what she could do. “Um, I’m not really set up for—