Sea Witch (5 page)

a fish, she twisted to straddle him, balancing on her knees on the narrow

bench. She reached between their bodies, prepared to wrestle with his

clothing, to wrest control, to snatch her satisfaction from him. But he was

prepared for her. His pants gaped open. She felt the rough scrape of fabric

against her thighs, the cold bite of his zipper, and then the warm thrust of

his flesh, there, just there. Aah.

She sank her teeth into her lower lip, closing her eyes to take him in,

to take it all in, to absorb the sensations inside and out. His thickness

filled her. The fire was warm against her back. The moon rode high

above the trees, its call cold and sweet on the air like the notes of a

trumpet.

“Open your eyes, Maggie. Look at me.”

Startled, she obeyed. Caleb was watching her, watching her face, his

jaw clenched, his gaze penetrating. She was joined to him, connected

with him. She felt the shock of it like lightning striking the sea.

He pressed up into her as hard, as far as he could go. She surrounded

him, rising and falling as if she rode the waves to shore, rocking herself

against him, everything in her pulling down, flowing down, rushing to the

place where they were joined. Her nipples tightened. Her womb

contracted.

She lost tempo, her movements becoming frantic, erratic. Her head

dropped to his shoulder. His hands gripped her hips, steadying her,

moving her to his rhythm.

Almost there, almost . . .

His fingers bit into her flesh. “Look at me.”

But she was lost, liquid, gone, spinning away from him. Everything

in her tightened and spiraled down. She shuddered, crying out, and felt

him thrust up to meet her as he released hotly at her center.

Long moments passed before she drifted back to herself.

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Perspiration glued their bodies together. His chest rose and fell. Her

own breath flowed easily, but her heart beat as if she’d just surfaced from

a long dive.

“Not twenty minutes, after all.” He laughed softly, a quiet exhalation

against her throat. “You’re a miracle, Maggie. ”

Oh, no. Not a miracle. Angels dealt in miracles.

Selkies dealt in . . . Well, as a general rule, they did not deal in

miracles. Or humans either. She had not visited him as an angel would, to

bring tidings or a sign, to help or heal, to comfort or interfere in any way.

She had come ashore for sex. And now that her craving had been

satisfied, she would return to the sea.

She slid her arms from around his neck, feeling him slip from her

body with an odd sense of loss.

He grunted as she wriggled from his lap. “Where are you going?”

“I need . . .” She glanced toward the beach, her mind a blank. What

could she claim to need? He had warmed her, fed her, serviced her—not

once, but twice.

“Right.” He grimaced, stretching his scarred leg in front of him.

“Don’t go too far. You need a flashlight?”

“No,” she said truthfully. “I can see well enough.”

Even in human form, her eyes were better adapted to the dark than

his.

Caleb caught at her hand as she turned away. She looked back at

him, trying and failing to resent his hold on her.

He smiled. “Hurry back.”

She did not, could not, answer. But she owed him . . . something.

Stooping, she kissed him one last time. His lips were dry and steady.

Sweet.

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She straightened, her heart drumming in her ears.

As she picked her way through the trees to the shore, she felt his

gaze like a touch on her back.

Caleb watched her go, fighting the urge to call her back. After two

rounds of vigorous sex, the girl probably needed to powder her nose or

catch her breath or wash up or something. Although he didn’t know

anybody crazy enough to brave the water in May without a wetsuit.

But then, he’d never known anybody like Maggie.

It wasn’t her willingness to have sex with a near stranger that made

her unique.

Hell, that was how he’d met his ex-wife, in a smoky bar in Biloxi,

Mississippi. The Last Call was a hunting ground for lonely soldiers from

Fort Shelby in search of pool and pussy—not necessarily in that order—and local girls trolling for free drinks and husbands.

Sherilee, with her tailored slacks and expensive perfume, had

seemed a cut above the regular clientele, a bank teller out slumming for

the night with her girlfriends. Back then, she’d thought Caleb’s uniform

was cute and his taciturn Yankee silence sexy. He’d thought . . . Who was

he kidding? He’d been far from home, estranged from his family, and

staring down an eighteen-month deployment in the desert. They hadn’t

done much thinking. Or talking either. They’d gotten married right before

he shipped out, and he was pretty sure Sherilee had regretted her decision

before she’d even finished spending his imminent danger pay.

He knew better now than to imagine one night of sex was a good

basis for commitment or even compatibility.

But this was different. Maggie was different, lush and full of life,

uninhibited, uncalculating, generous in her love-making.

Caleb shook his head, disbelieving and flat-out grateful at the

memory of what she’d done. What they’d done together.

But he was different, too. This time, he was determined to have an

actual relationship with all the trimmings of a normal life, phone calls and

flowers and family visits.

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He winced, thinking of his father hunched over the scarred kitchen

table, scowling into the bottom of a whiskey glass. Okay, a visit with his

family might be pushing things. But at least he could take Maggie out,

spring for dinner and a movie.

Make love to her in a bed.

Caleb rubbed his knee, glanced toward the tree line. When she came

back, he had to get her phone number.

The fire hissed and popped. The sparks rode the updraft into the

dark.

It was a long time before he accepted she wasn’t coming back.

37

Four

WAVES BOILED OVER THE ROCKS AT THE SELKIES’ island

Sanctuary. White veils of spray caught the afternoon sun. Drops glittered

in the air like diamonds. Farther out, long lines of whitecaps rolled, their

crests curling over the deep blue green—the horses of Llyr, running

before the wind.

Standing alone in a tower room in Caer Subai, Margred listened to

the crash and roar of the tide. The mingled scents of land and sea, life and

decay, climbed to her window like the rose vines in a fairy tale.

She stared down at the foaming sea, a discontent inside her as cold

and sharp as the wind blowing through the un-paned windows.

She pulled her velvet robe, a relic of a fifteenth-century queen,

around her. Not for warmth, but for the comfort of its rich texture. She

had hoped being here in Sanctuary, among her own kind, would still the

restlessness that had roiled her these past three weeks.

She had been wrong. Even the smooth fabric against her skin failed

to soothe the itch inside her.

She did not belong here, in the court of the sea king’s son, where

considerations of pair bonds and politics lurked behind every smile and

ambushed every conversation. She did not seek another mate. She did not

care about court intrigue. Better to have stayed in the isolation of the sea,

in the independence of her own territory.

Hurry
back, the man had said.

The thought disturbed her.

She turned from the window.

No rug covered the smoothly fitted flagstones under her feet. No fire

burned beneath the massive mantle. The chandelier suspended from the

beamed and painted ceiling held no candles. Unlike the children of the

earth, selkies did not mine or make, grow or spin. Caer Subai was

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furnished with the salvage of centuries of wrecks: Viking gold and

Cornish iron, silk hangings from France and wooden chests from Spain.

The platters and goblets on the table were all of gold, and the high stone

walls were covered with tapestry scenes of the Creation: a stylized wave,

the dark, the deep, a dove, their bright silks preserved by the magic that

seeped from the ancient stones like mist and lay like shadows in the

corners of the room.

The children of the sea did not interfere with the ships that traveled

over their ocean. But everything that fell beneath the waves was forfeit,

human lives and human possessions both. Selkies plucked mortals from

the wreckage when it pleased them, delivering the survivors safe to shore.

Whatever else pleased them, they brought here, or stored in sea caves in

their own territories.

On past visits, Margred had delighted in the treasures of Caer Subai.

Her gaze rested on the fireplace, fancifully carved with sea monsters and

mermaids, its whimsical design a testament to the artistry of its maker . . .

and the odd humor of the prince. But now everything seemed faded.

Spoiled. Tarnished. Flat. She should return to the sea.

No
. The thought formed like a fog, unsubstantial and enveloping.

She should go back to the man
.
Caleb
.

Footsteps sounded on the tower stairs. “Margred?”

She shivered at the deep-timbred voice. It almost sounded like . . .

“Are you alone?” A tall, male form appeared in the arched doorway.

He was dressed in rough fisherman’s clothing, canvas pants and a shirt,

that did nothing to disguise his extraordinary beauty.

Dylan
.

The younger selkie had claimed a territory adjoining hers a score of

years ago. She tolerated him because of his youth and bitter humor. Well,

and because he was very good to look at, in a fierce and fine-honed way.

Once she had even considered . . .

She half smiled and shook her head. He took himself too seriously to

suit her.

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He had spoken in English, so she answered in the same tongue. “As

you see.”

Dylan crossed the tower room, leaning his elbows on the window

ledge beside her. Posing, she thought.

The wind ruffled his dark hair. “Perhaps you are alone too much,” he

said.

She shot him an amused look. “Do you speak for yourself? Or the

prince?”

“Conn is concerned for you, of course.”

“I don’t see why.”

“He wants you to be happy here.”

“He wants me to whelp selkie babies, you mean.”

“The prince is disturbed by the decline in our numbers,” Dylan said

in a careful tone. “At last count there were fewer than two thousand of

our people left.”

Margred arched her eyebrows. “At last count? Does Conn really

believe the king and the others living beneath the wave”—the polite term

for those selkies who rarely or never took human form—“would present

themselves for his census?”

“You can’t deny there are fewer of us born each year.”

She did not deny anything. Her inability to bear her mate a child had

been a source of real, if secret, grief to her four or five decades past.

She shrugged, feigning indifference. “A low birth rate is the price

our people pay for immortality. The seas would be overrun with us else.”

“Instead of which, our numbers are dropping. Our population may

have been in balance once, but now too many of us are dying.”

“And are reborn again in the sea,” Margred said. “As we always

have been.”

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As she had been herself, seven centuries ago.

“
Not
always. Selkies who die without their sealskins are not reborn.

They cease to exist.”

Memory welled like fresh blood from an old scar. “My mate was

killed by poachers. I do not need you to explain to me what happens to a

selkie who dies without his pelt.”

Dylan watched her closely. “I have offended you.”

But she would not give him even that much. “It is what it is. Mayhap

his fate is one he would have chosen. Endless existence has its own . . .

burdens.”

“You are dissatisfied?”

Dissatisfied
,
restless
,
empty
,
alone . . .

She lifted her chin. “I am bored.”

His gaze sharpened on her face. “I hear you’ve been amusing

yourself ashore.”

“And this interests you because . . . ?”

“Perhaps you would be better served if you redirected your energy

toward your own kind.”

She tilted her head. “Pimping for the prince, Dylan?”

“Merely delivering a friendly warning. There are dangers to

becoming involved with humans.”

“You are half human, are you not?”

His mouth compressed. “It’s impossible to be half anything. You are