Sins Against the Sea (8 page)

I’ll be lucky if I don’t break an ankle. Or worse, my neck.

The cold wind lashed around her, stinging her cheeks and making her nose run. There were lighted boats anchored several yards offshore. Coastguard cruisers, she guessed, though she couldn’t make out exactly how many. She shone the flashlight up and down the beach, looking for the reporter or the on-site commander. She saw neither of them, but what she did see turned her stomach. The white sand looked as though it had been dipped in chocolate and dead fish, seals, and seabirds littered the expanse. A sound behind her drove her heart into her throat and spun her around.

“Would you be the flack for Conch Oil, then?”

The question was posed by a tall man who looked to be in his mid to late thirties. He had short hair, a day or two’s worth of stubble on his jaw, and light-colored eyes. In the beam of the flashlight she’d shone on his face, she couldn’t tell if they were blue, green, or gray.

“Who are you?” She had a pretty good idea she’d just located the obnoxious reporter from Skye.

“Lachlan MacInnes.” He stuck out a meaty hand. “With the West Highland Free Press.”

She took his offered hand, cold as her own, and gave it a firm shake. Letting go, she stepped back and looked past him toward the rocks, still hoping to find the site commander. “Have you spoken to Mr. Trowbridge?”

“Not yet,” MacInnes said, his voice gruff . “I motor-boated over from Skye half an hour ago and all I’ve seen so far is the coastguard and the occasional news helicopter.”

Corey was still looking around for the on-scene commander. “I wonder where everybody is.”

“I was wondering the same thing myself,” he said, frowning. “Along with what the bloody hell an Aframax was doing in the Minch. Where are the clean-up crews? Why have no booms or scoops yet been deployed to collect the leaking oil?”

With a disgusted snort, he added, “I hope Conch isn’t planning to pull the same crap that BP did down in the gulf…and use that glycol-based dispersant that ended up doing more harm than good. According to National Geographic, it merely made the oil sink to the bottom, where it killed even more sea life, including most of the zooplankton, which is critical to the oceanic food chain. Because of their stupidity, the local economy has collapsed…and, from what I hear, tar balls are still washing up on the beach.”

Swallowing hard, she returned the statement to her pocket. It now seemed woefully inadequate.

“I’m sure the crews are on their way,” she assured him, choosing her words carefully. “Now, if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll make a call and try to get you some answers.”

He stood there sizing her up before he said, “While you’re at it, tell your friends an oil-spill response ought not to be based on a cost-benefit ratio. If you people had any decency, you’d be putting everything you had into stopping the oil from escaping…and collecting every drop of it that does.” He paused, shaking his head. “But look who I’m talking to. In my considered opinion, you lot are no better than the drug pushers who hang around schoolyards…or the cigarette companies who use cartoons to coerce kiddies into smoking.”

Forcing a smile, Corey stepped away, pulled out her cell, and checked the strength of the signal. One lousy bar. Shit. She walked farther up the beach, relieved that he didn’t follow, but the signal was still too weak to place a call. She headed toward the cliffs, where the signal was allegedly stronger, sweeping the flashlight beam across her path as she went, navigating around large rocks and tidal pools.

Even if she could get a signal and reach Peter, she knew she wasn’t likely to get answers that would satisfy somebody as confrontational as Lachlan MacInnes. She was starting to feel like a mouse in a room full of cats. With tears in her eyes, she climbed the wet rocks, shivering with cold and slipping more than once.

“Robharta?”

When Corey heard the voice—deep, rough, and male—she froze in her tracks. Perhaps it was one of the coastguard officers…or Mr. Trowbridge. Aiming her flashlight in the direction from which the sound had come, she saw nothing apart from the craggy cliff face. She listened hard for a long moment, but heard nothing more than the roar and hiss of the sea behind her.

Forgetting the voice for now, she checked her phone. To her dismay, the signal was still too weak to place a call. Moving farther up the rocks, she saw what looked like the entrance to a cave partially concealed by vines and shrubbery. Had the voice come from inside? Heart in throat, she called out toward the opening.

“Hello? Is somebody there?”

Silence answered her.

Heart in throat, she crept closer, calling out again. She thought she heard something—some kind of animal sound. She struggled to recall what Glen Brody and Mr. MacLeod had said about the wildlife on the island. Neither had mentioned there being wolves or bobcats or any other dangerous predators hereabouts. Only deer, geese, hedgehogs—and, absurdly, blue mermen.

She took a minute to contemplate the likely threat of the humble hedgehog. Though she had never seen one, she had a vague sense they were similar to prairie dogs. Did they live in caves? Did they turn vicious when confronted, like raccoons and badgers? She didn’t relish the idea of meeting any kind of wild animal out here all alone, even a harmless one. Just as she pivoted to head back down the hill, the man spoke again.

“Hallo? Robharta?”

Fear prickled across Corey’s skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. This time she was sure. It was definitely a male voice with a thick accent of some kind. Either that, or he wasn’t strictly speaking English.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Even though her gut told her to run away as fast as her legs would carry her, compassion kept her standing there. The man in the cave might be injured. She should at least have a look in case he needed medical attention.

Fighting her flight instinct, Corey picked her way up the rocks toward the cave. At the entrance, she stopped and shone the flashlight beam inside. Her heart was pounding so hard in her ears she could hardly hear herself think. Moving the beam around, she saw nothing apart from rocks, driftwood, and seaweed.

A moan, low and miserable, echoed eerily. Cringing, she took a cautious step inside, flashlight patrolling, eyes burning into the shadows. Whoever was in here obviously needed help.

“Hello? Are you hurt?”

Her voice reverberated disconcertingly. She heard movement. Rustling. Mucking. There was definitely someone—or something—in here. She took another step, then another, holding her breath. She would bolt, she told herself, at the first sign of a threat. She'd fly down to the beach screaming her head off for help—even if the only source of help available was Lachlan MacInnes.

She heard the moan again, so full of pain. Her heart wrenched in sympathy. The man was definitely hurt. Maybe she could help him down to the beach and signal the coastguard. She moved deeper into the cave. It was dank, beyond creepy, and smelled like the Long Beach docks. Her breath caught when she saw something move. Steadying the beam and her nerves, she slunk toward whatever had moved.

“Where are you?” Her voice, though low, resounded disconcertingly. “Say something so I can find you.”

Nothing.

She flashed the beam around. Something shimmered in the light from what looked to be a long, low jetty of mud. She crept toward it. The glimmer brightened, and became…eyes. Glowing, animal-like eyes, blinking into the light. Holding her breath, she shone the beam down what had to be the length of his body. His torso was bare and looked human. Her heart twisted when she saw he was completely coated in oil.

“Oh dear,” she said softly, offering him a trembling smile. “Are you badly hurt?”

He started pushing away from her, but awkwardly, as though he was having trouble moving. She fixed the light on his legs, concerned they might be injured or trapped. She did not expect what she saw. Something else, maybe, but not that. Her jaw dropped. The blood drained from her face. She blinked and looked again, seeing the same impossible thing as before.

He had no legs. Only a tail. A fish’s tail with scales and a pronged caudal fin.

She staggered backward, gasping, stumbling, falling. She landed hard on wet sand. The flashlight dropped from her hand, thumping as it hit the sodden floor of the cave. She just sat there as the damp seeped into the seat of her slacks, too stupefied to think. Fear and disbelief threatened to strangle her. She tried to cry out for help, but couldn’t push the words out her throat.

This can’t be real. Mermen don’t exist. Yet, here one is, big as life.

Even though the flashlight was down, the beam was still on. Still on him, bathing him in light. She looked into his eyes, which were wide with confusion and fear. Her heart was pounding in her chest and ears. What should she do? Scream, run, or…attempt to communicate?

“Can you talk?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

As he nodded, his long hair, heavy with oil, barely moved.

“Do you…have a name?”

He nodded again. “Kew-in.”

“Mine is Corey,” she told him, tapping her chest. “Cordelia, actually, but everybody calls me Corey.”

Her mom, whose name was Aerwyna, had given her the name and she’d always hated it. The merman just stared at her, blinking, seemingly as astonished to see her as she was to see him.

“Where are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “
Ha mee cheen
.”

She blinked at him and shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your language.”

“S-sick,” he said, surprising the hell out of her with his use of English.

The oil was to blame. His skin was absorbing its toxins. Unless she could somehow wash it off, and soon, he might die. She thought about the claw-foot tub back at the cottage before dismissing the idea. There was no way to get him there. Having no legs, he could hardly walk, and he was far too heavy for her to carry. Or, God forbid,
drag
over all those rocks. Maybe if she could find a bucket, cooking oil, and dishwashing detergent back in the kitchen, she could at least get the process started. She grabbed the flashlight and got to her feet.

The merman just looked at her, his eyes so wide open the whites completely surrounded his blue-green irises.

“Stay here,” she whispered as she turned to go, “and keep quiet. I’ll be back in a little while with something to clean you up.”

She scrambled down the rocky slope, hand shaking on the flashlight, heart slamming against her ribcage, face burning with shock. A rhyming refrain bounced inside her brain like a sing-along ball.

Mermen are real

Mermen are real

Oh holy fuck

Mermen are real

Down below, the beach was a high-contrast canvas of lights and darks thanks to the boats in the harbor. The sight of Lachlan MacInnes pacing among the shadows only exacerbated her anxieties. Shit. That was the last thing she needed right now. What was she going to tell him? Not about the merman, that was for damn sure.

When MacInnes saw her coming, he jogged over, meeting her at the edge of an oily patch of pebble-sand. “Well…?”

“Sorry.” She avoided his impatient glare. “I couldn’t get a signal. I’m afraid your questions will have to wait until morning.”

“Typical,” he grumbled, “and don’t be thinking I’m some bumpkin you can string along indefinitely. I know all about the OPA requirements for tanker registration and emergency response. From what I’ve observed so far, I’d say your company’s got a lot to answer for.”

Before Corey could come up with a suitable reply (several of the unsuitable variety came quickly to mind), he stalked off down the beach. Dazed and shaken, she made her way back to the cottage. She couldn’t stop thinking about the merman. Was he one of the blue storm kelpies MacLeod had mentioned in what she’d interpreted as a jest? Were storm kelpies dangerous? She wished now she hadn’t been so quick to dismiss it as superstitious nonsense. In the morning, she was definitely going to talk to his wife. If, that was, she could carve out the time…and providing she survived this awful night.

* * * *

Cuan’s heart was now as sick as his body. Who was the woman with the liquid eyes and battery-powered torch? Where had she come from and, more importantly, why had she affected him so?

With Meredith, his feelings had strengthened gradually—like a spark catching fire before slowly building to a blaze. This, however, was sudden. As sudden, bright, and explosive as the strike of an electric eel. One brilliant flash had reduced him, heart and soul, to a burned-out husk. At his core, he knew neither he nor his life would ever be the same again.

Help me. For my daughter, Corey. I’m all she’s got.

Distress set a hook in his heart. Was his savior the drowning man’s Corey? Knowing what tricksters the fates could be, it would not surprise him in the least. Closing his eyes on his misery, he called her image into his mind. Her face was as radiant as the moon, her voice as bewitching as a siren’s, and her touch every bit as pleasurable as Meredith’s had been.

She was perfect in every way but three. First, she was human; second, she had seen him in his native form; and third, she had something to do with the tanker called
Ketos.