Sea Witch (21 page)

Sherilee never had. In the brief months they’d actually lived together

before Caleb’s deployment, his ex-wife complained he was never there

for her. She objected to the late nights, the canceled dates, the interrupted

phone calls. The fact that even when he wasn’t working, he checked out

on her sometimes in his head. In his heart.

No wonder the marriage hadn’t stuck.

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Caleb dragged in a quick, frustrated breath.

Neither had Maggie.

168

Thirteen

SHE HAD RECOGNIZED HIM.

The thought cracked like lightning, blinding, scorching.

Not the human body he inhabited, of course. But she had definitely

reacted to his presence, his essence, within. She must die
.

No, the man thought, horrified. What . . . ?

He dug his fingers into his temples as the mother of all migraines

threatened to burst his skull. His stomach lurched. He fought for control,

bile burning his nose. Saliva pooled in his mouth.

He must be hallucinating. He clung to that rational thought. He

wasn’t opposed to all killing. Hell, he’d argued in favor of capital

punishment. But he never thought . . . He never would . . .

Sparks detonated in his head, danced in his vision.

Nononooo . .
.

He fell to his knees, still clasping his head.

* * * *

The gannet rode the currents of air as easily as a selkie in the water,

white wings shining like sails in the sun, yellow head cocked to follow

Margred’s progress. At one with its element, it floated, graceful and free

in the cool blue sky.

Landlocked and sweaty, Margred stopped to glare upward. Stupid

bird.

The sun beat on her head and chest as she pushed through a tangle of

beach roses and blackberry bushes. Trailing canes hooked her skirt and

hair. Thin scarlet scratches sprang up on her arms. Midges swarmed,

attracted by the scent of blood.

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She wanted the sea, the rhythm of the surf, the rocking of the waves,

the freedom of the water. She wanted to plunge and dance in the depths,

to glide like the gannet. She longed to be herself again, not this clumsy

two-footed creature stumbling over the coarse grass, bleeding and beset

by insects.

Beyond the golden crest of the hill, the ocean glittered like a

promise. But she could not see the beach. Where was the gannet leading

her?

The thicket thinned to clumps of prickly juniper and spicy bayberry.

A wind skipped over the hill, stirring her hair, refreshing her spirit.

Margred lifted her face to the breeze.

The land fell away to wrinkled rock dotted with glasswort and

goldenrod and then to stony beach.

Margred breathed deep, the smell of the earth infused with the salt of

the sea, gazing down at a cove cupped like water between fingers of rock.

The waves winked in the sun, teasing. Tantalizing.

There, at the water’s edge, standing by a tide pool of swaying brown

rockweed, Dylan waited alone.

Without Conn.

And almost without clothes, Margred noted with a ripple of new

awareness. Human awareness. A pair of low, wet, ripped shorts hung

from his narrow hips in an apparent concession to modesty. Hers? Or his?

Dylan might be the prince’s creature now, but he had been raised human

for thirteen years.

His dark hair was sleeked back, touching his broad, bare shoulders.

His bare feet balanced on the rocks.

So she had one advantage, at least. She had shoes.

She crunched in them over the pebbled beach.

At the sound, Dylan turned. He made a move toward her, quickly

checked.

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Selkies did not touch, even in greeting. Only to fight, or to mate, acts

of possession as much as passion.

You do not own me
, she had told Caleb. Any more than Antonia

owned her cat.

Was he looking for her? Margred wondered suddenly. Worried about

her?

She pushed the thought away. She had other things to worry about.

Like his brother.

She stopped, raking her hair back from her hot face. “You could

have chosen a more convenient meeting place.”

Dylan shrugged. “This is convenient for me. There’s a private island

a few miles east of here—an easy swim, in either form, and undisturbed,

if you don’t count the birds and an occasional kayaker. I keep a few

things there.”

“Is that safe?”

“Safer than here, apparently.” His gaze narrowed on her forehead.

His mouth formed a flat line. “Is my brother beating you already?”

Self-consciously, Margred fingered the bump at her hairline. “Your

brother saved me. Or didn’t Conn tell you?”

“The prince keeps his own counsel always.”

“Yet he sent you.”

Dylan bowed. “As you see.”

“Why, if not to help?”

“To find out what happened to you. The
muc mara’s
account made

no sense.”

“So Conn sent you on a family visit.” She watched him stiffen as

that arrow struck home. “Why did you not tell me Caleb was your

brother?”

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“Why didn’t you tell me you were shagging him?” Dylan shot back.

Beneath that cool facade, there were currents swirling she did not

understand. Rivalry or injured pride or . . . He had wanted her once.

She shrugged. “I did not think the relationship had any relevance to

you.”

Dylan showed his teeth in a thin smile. “I could say the same.”

“Who was your mother?” Margred asked.

Dylan looked out to sea. Perhaps, like his brother, he needed

encouragement to talk.

“Did I know her?”

“You probably know of her. Our dam was Atargatis.”

Margred hissed in surprise.

Atargatis was one of the ancient ones, almost as old as Llyr himself.

Legends and prophecies clustered around her name like barnacles on a

rock.

“I did not know she was still alive.”

“She’s not. She drowned shortly after returning with me to the sea.

Trapped in a fisherman’s net.” Dylan’s mouth twisted. “Ironic, since our

father was a fisherman.”

Margred shivered. “But she is immortal. She would have been

reborn again.”

“Maybe. I’ve never looked for her. What would be the point?”

“She is your mother.”

“I don’t need a mother anymore. Especially not one years younger

than me with only vague memories of who I am.”

She smothered a flicker of sympathy. “You would rather attach

yourself to the prince?”

172

“I enjoy the prince’s favor. Conn believes there is power in our

lineage, although the prophecies speak only of the daughters of our

house.”

The daughters . .
.

Margred’s breath caught. “Your sister?”

But Dylan shook his head. “Lucy is not selkie. She has never

Changed. I know. Conn set me to . . . watch her, for many years.”

“And your brother?”

“What of him?”

“Do you spy on him, too?”

“He left the island,” Dylan said flatly. “Where he went and what he

did after that is no concern of mine.”

Margred tilted her head. “So you only care who he fucks?”

Dylan’s lean face flushed.

“Did you know he had been wounded?” she asked.

“Caleb? When? How?”

“He was a soldier in the desert. He still has scars.”

And nightmares. But she would not expose those to Dylan. She had

perhaps said too much already.

“Is that why you stay with him? Because you feel sorry for him?”

“No!” Whatever she felt for Caleb was not pity. Nor was it any of

his brother’s business. “I stay because . . . because I cannot leave. My pelt

was stolen from me. Destroyed. Conn did not tell you?”

“He said—the
muc mara
claimed you were attacked. By demons.

Which is crap.”

“Why?”

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Dylan regarded her with patient disbelief, his expression so like

Caleb’s that Margred’s stomach tightened. “Elementals do not prey on

other elementals,” he said.

“Wrong. The demons have been warring with the children of the air

since the creation of mankind.”

“A war that has nothing to do with us.”

Margred arched her brows. “Even though you are half human?”

Dylan stiffened. “I am selkie. Anyway, the fire spawn have no

reason or excuse to attack you.”

“I was not aware they needed an excuse.”

“Of course they do. Margred, think. The children of the sea have

always been neutral in Hell’s war on humankind. Why would a demon

target you and risk the king’s anger?”

His argument shook her. But she said, “Oh, as if Llyr would even

notice.”

“Conn, then,” Dylan said. “He would not ignore an attack on one of

his people.”

She glared at him. “No, he would just send you, and you would

declare it to be impossible.”

“At least admit it is unlikely. Why would the fire folk upset the

balance of power?”

“I don’t know. I am not a politician.” Frustration welled inside her

like an underwater spring. She had told Caleb as much of the truth as she

dared, and he had not believed her. Now Dylan did not believe her either.

“I want my pelt back.”

Sympathy softened the hard lines of his face. “Margred . . .” He

reached for her.

She bared her teeth.

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His arms dropped back at his sides. “Be reasonable. Why would a

demon take your pelt?”

“To destroy me.”

“To what end?”

“I tell you, I don’t
know
.” Despair made her shrill.

“Isn’t it more likely you were attacked by a human? A fisherman,”

Dylan suggested. As if she could not tell the difference between a man

who made his living from the sea and a demon who dwelled in the fire.

“Or a poacher who wanted your pelt.”

“And so he waited until I conveniently stepped out of my skin before

throwing it onto the fire? How does that make sense?”

“More sense than this notion that another elemental wants to end

your very existence.”

“I smelled a demon,” she insisted.

“And what did it smell like?”

“Like fire.”

Dylan sneered. “Your pelt is burning, and you smelled fire. How

extraordinary.”

She hit him, hard, across the face. His head snapped back. Her palm

burned.

She did not care. Her heart was on fire. “Mock me at your peril,

Dylan. I die a little every day, trapped in this place. In this body. When I

am gone, I am gone forever. Without my sealskin, I am not immortal

anymore.”

The red imprint of her hand stood out against Dylan’s cheek. The

rest of his face drained of all color. All emotion. “And if you had it,

would you be content to let these accusations go?”

If she had her pelt . . .

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Hope unfurled inside her. She would be free. Free to return to

herself. To the sea. Free to—

Leave Caleb
.

The thought lodged like a stone in her chest. She could not breathe.

This was what she wanted, she reminded herself. The sweet, deep,

cloudy sea, brimming with form and color and life. Swaying forests of

kelp, carpets of anemones, swathes of coral and sponges. Who would

crawl over the crust of one quarter of the world for a span of years when

they could have the world’s oceans and centuries of freedom to explore?

Would you be content
?

She opened her mouth, but the answer would not come. Her fingers

tangled in the necklace at her throat.

Dylan’s gaze shifted to a point beyond her shoulder. He went still

with a kind of coiled energy, like a moray eel whose prey is in sight.

“Hello, brother,” he said silkily.

Brother, my ass
.

Caleb leveled a checkpoint glare at the asshole crowding Maggie,

itching for an excuse to cuff him and drag him to the station. He could

take him. The guy was younger and taller—longer reach—but he didn’t

carry much weight. Untrained, probably. Unarmed. Unless he had a knife

in his shorts pocket.

Caleb had watched them as he came over the hill, Maggie practically

on tiptoe, getting in the guy’s face, talking with him, arguing with him.

The unconscious intimacy of their pose had stuck in Caleb’s throat.

Struck at his heart.

And then Maggie hauled off and slugged the guy, the sound echoing

off the rocks like a rifle shot.

At least he hadn’t tried to hit her back.

Yet.

“Who the fuck are you?” Caleb asked.

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Those flat black eyes widened slightly. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Something about that taunting tone, that twisted smile, got under

Caleb’s skin. A splinter of doubt worked its way toward his heart.