The Nice Boxset

by Jasinda Wilder

“No more waiting. He sinks down to the deepness, and he does not rise up again. No more breath.”

  “You know this?”

  “The sea, she whispers her secrets, if you can hear her voice.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Your words, this human speaking. It does not speak all the trueness of the sea, of the living of her, the feeling inside her. You do not know, for you are not of her, as I am.”

  Frustration boiled through her, because it felt like he was sharing something monumental, but she couldn’t understand his convoluted usage of language. “I’m sorry, Murtagh, but I’m not following you.”

  “Follow? I am here.”

  “No, I mean…I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Oh. I mean—” he exhaled sharply, as if frustrated himself. “I ask the sea, and she tells me. I see you much with him, your man, and then he leaves on this shell upon the sea, and you are much alone. Much sad. Waiting for him to come back in his shell upon the sea. He will not. The sea knows him, now. She has swallowed him. He joins the many who breathe only the darkness of the deeps, now.”

  “He’s dead, you mean.”

  “Dead is not living, not breathing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he is dead.”

  A sob ripped out of her, the first she’d allowed herself since he’d left. Until that moment, she had refused to weep for him, to mourn him, for fear that to mourn him too soon would somehow mean she was being unfaithful to him. Giving up too soon.

  But then…how did she know Murtagh was telling the truth? How could she believe him? He was a stranger from the sea, a real live selkie, if what she’d seen could be believed. Yet…if she believed he was a selkie—which the evidence of her eyes demanded—then it wasn’t so great a stretch to believe that he could somehow communicate with the sea herself, that he might somehow have inside knowledge, so to speak, of Calum’s death.

  Tears were dripping down her cheek. She could still just barely make out Murtagh’s form in the darkness, the shape of him dimly lit by the starlight from the window behind her. Murtagh reached out a hand, extending a thumb toward her cheek. She shied away, but then allowed him to smear her tear onto the pad of his thumb. Another tear slid down her cheek, and his thumb traced its path. Another tear fell, and his thumb pressed delicately against her tear duct.

  And then he pressed his thumb to his lips, tasting her tears. “You make the sea from your eyes.”

  She sniffled. “It’s called crying.”

  “Crying. Why do you do the crying?”

  “It means I’m sad. For Calum. My man. My husband.”

  “Husband?”

  “Mate…my mate.”

  Silence, and the shine and shimmer of his eyes fixed on her. “You are crying because you are sad your mate is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “I felt sadness when this woman no longer came down to the sea to mate with me. I felt much pleased when she came down to the sea.”

  “We…Calum and I were mated for life.”

  “Always him, only him?”

  Brighid nodded against the pillow. “Yes. Always him, only him.”

  “And now he is dead. Will you choose a new mate?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “I could be your mate. Not for always, but for some of the seasons. I must swim to the winter hunting seas, but when I return with the warm currents, I will be your mate again.”

  Brighid laughed. “Such a male. No, Murtagh. That’s not how human mates work.” She frowned. “Well, not for me. For some, it is.”

  “My hurt is strong. No more of this talking.”

  Brighid let out a slow breath, and turned away to face the window, watching gray-white shreds of cloud skirl across the moon, obscuring and then revealing, occluding stars here and there. Behind her, she heard Murtagh’s breathing even out and slow, and she knew he was asleep.

  Soon, so was she.

  When she awoke, he was watching her.

  He watched her as she prepared breakfast, and he watched her as she changed into a clean dress, and he watched her as she changed his dressing.

  He watched her, and watched her, and watched her. She went about her chores, and he rested. She helped him to the outhouse, which he found detestable. She read to him from a book, which he found fascinating. When she stirred the fire to life in the fireplace, he was fearful but fascinated, his animal instinct warring with his human nature.

  Another day passed thus, and another. He healed faster than a normal man might, Brighid reckoned. He was still unable to be on his feet for more than a couple of seconds, but that was more than she’d have expected for anyone else after so short a time.

  A few days became a week, and a week became a month, and then two. His command of the structure of English never really improved, but he learned new words all the time, and he became ever more articulate.

  At no point did he ever let go of the fur pelt; it was always, always clutched in one hand, or tucked under his arm, cradled against his ribcage. He was fiercely protective of it.

  One night, as they lay in bed, him above and she under the covers, Brighid found herself staring at the pelt curiously. She reached out a hand, tentative and cautious; Murtagh’s warning snarl was pure animal.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just curious.” She withdrew her hand, watching him.

  He tucked the fur deeper underneath him, out of sight. “It is not for you.”

  “I know.” She kept her distance, but let the question she’d been harboring bubble out. “The legends about selkies…they say if you don’t have your pelt, you can’t change back, that you won’t be able to return to the sea.”

  He snarled again. “Not a pelt. That is the skin your human hunters take from my changeless brothers. This—” he clutched the fur tightly, squeezing it in gesture. “It is…it is me.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t touch it, I’m just…I’m curious, I guess.”

  “What you say is true. Without it, I am only a man, and I cannot speak to the sea, and she cannot speak to me. I can hear her, but I cannot speak to her. She speaks, but I hear only the waves, not her voice. If I do not speak to her, I cannot change back, and I will be like your man, but on land. What is your word for sinking under the waves?”

  “Drowning.”

  “Drowning. I will drowning here on the land. Already, the beast craves the sea. The drowning is soon. I must touch the water, see her, feel her. Hear her.”

  “You can still barely move, Murtagh. I don’t know how it works when you change back, but you’re not healed enough yet to swim. You’d barely make it down to the water as you are now.”

  He rumbled, a seal’s growl of unhappiness. “I cannot change back yet. But I must touch the sea.” There was a pained note of desperation in his deep, guttural voice. “I must. She calls me.”

  Brighid fashioned a crude crutch, the next day. Wrapped his leg tightly, and tried to convince him to don a pair of Calum’s old trousers, but Murtagh refused.

  “I am not a man, to wear a man’s clothing.”

  It was growing ever more difficult for Brighid, having him around naked all the time. She found her gaze wandering to him throughout the day, whether he was covered by the blanket or not. And now, upright, her shoulder under his arm, her crude crutch under his other, assisting him slowly down toward the beach, his skin was warm against her, smooth and firm. His manhood swung between his legs, and she tried to not stare, but the battle was a losing one, for her.

  If he noticed her gaze, or felt it, he gave no indication.

  When they finally, after a long, exhausting trek, reached the water’s edge, Murtagh tossed the crutch aside, gingerly unwrapped the dressing and handed the bundle of cloth to Brighid, and then hopped on one leg into the waves, and then when he was too deep to hop any longer, he sat down in the water and used his hands to push himself deeper, until the waves lapped at his throat and chin.

  She was grateful to be away from him
, because his proximity, the feel of his muscles and his flesh created a dark, dangerous fluttering in her belly, made her thighs clench and her breasts ache, in a way she hadn’t felt in so, so long. It felt like a betrayal to Calum to feel such things, and she attempted to push it away. Yet the longer Murtagh remained in her home, the longer he slept in her bed—even separated by layers of blankets, and even though he had made no move to touch her in any way—the harder it became to ignore the feelings.

  “Come.” Murtagh’s voice called out to her. “Come feel the sea with me.”

  It was a warm day, the sun bright, the sky clear blue, the wind a gentle breeze. She let out a breath, gathered her skirts up around her knees, and waded in to her calves.

  Murtagh watched, and frowned. “No. You cannot feel her with the clothing over your skin. You cannot breathe her breath, you cannot feel her.”

  “I’m not taking off my clothes in front of you, Murtagh.”

  “Why?”

  She had no answer for that. Modesty was not an idea he would understand. She’d tried, and he’d only given her the blank, uncomprehending stare.

  “Just…because.”

  Murtagh stared. “You fear me.” His lifted his head, his nostrils flaring. “I smell your fear.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Murtagh.”

  “Your words do not agree with the scent of fear.” He remained where he was, watching her. “What do you fear?”

  “It’s not fear, exactly.”

  “I do not understand, then. I smell fear.”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  He shook his head. “She said that. When she did not wish for me to understand.”

  “What wouldn’t she want you to understand?”

  “Why she couldn’t come with me, out into the deeps. Down deep, away, to the winter hunting sea. I could breathe for her. I could teach her to hear the sea. But she would not, and I did not understand why. She only would tell me that it was hard to explain.”

  “Some things are hard to explain, Murtagh.”

  “No. You do not want to. This is not the same as cannot. Not as I am understanding your words to mean.”

  He was cunning. She couldn’t argue with his logic. “Fine. I don’t want to explain some things to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is painful and confusing. Because I don’t understand them myself.”

  “Try.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, not like a…like prey fears the predator. You are a man, and I am a woman. I had a husband, a mate. Now I don’t, and I’m lonely.”

  “I am here. You are not lonely anymore.”

  She laughed. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “I am a male, not a man.” He lifted the fur. “I am this.” He tapped his chest. “And this. I am both.”

  “It’s just…you say the sea told you Calum is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t just…forget him.”

  Murtagh sighed, and lay back in the waves so he was submerged completely and then rose up again, a peaceful, contented expression on his rugged features, water sluicing down from his beard, his hair pasted to his shoulders. “No forgetting. I do not forget her, the woman from beyond the dunes. Never, never will I forget her. She was sad, and much alone, and her body was not strong. I think she became dead, and so no longer came down the sea to mate with me. This is sad, inside me, that she is dead. But I do not forget. Also I do not cease to be alive. She has become dead, not me. Must I remember her and only her, for always? What if I choose also to remember you?” He gazed at her steadily, and his dark, sharp predator eyes were fierce and intense and wise. “Remember your man, your Calum. But also be alive. Breathe the sea. Breathe your land. Touch the wind. Touch the sea. Feel the life in all things.”

  “Murtagh—”

  He did not look away, did not stop to hear her protest. “Feel the life in me. I am here. I am alive. I am a male, and a man, and I am here. He is not. He is in the deepness of the sea, breathing only darkness. I breathe life. Remember him, but also be alive.”

  “What if it’s not that simple for me?”

  “Life is life. It flows like the currents—always, always, always. A death does not slow the currents. We must swim, or the darkness will be our only breath.”

  Wisdom of the wild. Simple, practical.

  She’d mourned and waited for three years. She knew in her heart and soul that Murtagh was telling the truth, that Calum was gone. So why could she not…be alive?

  Slowly, hesitantly, Brighid reached up and unbuttoned her dress, baring more and more flesh with each button undone. Murtagh’s gaze was steady and as mysterious as ever, unreadable. When the buttons were all undone, she lifted the garment off and set it with Murtagh’s dressings, the whole weighed down by the crutch. And then she was naked, standing in the breeze and the sunlight, with Murtagh’s gaze openly perusing her.

  She waded deeper, and even on such a warm day the water was icy cold, making her bones ache. Deeper and deeper…closer and closer to Murtagh. Who watched, never looking away, not moving a single muscle as she waded up to her thighs. And then she was standing beside him, the water at her thighs, all of her bared. He’d watched her change more than once, despite her attempts to change when he wasn’t watching, but this was different. There was no privacy in that small home, being only one room. Here, it was the open sea, the beach, the sunlight, and her own choice to strip naked so he could look at her.

  “Go under. Feel her.” Murtagh’s voice was low, the words nearly inaudible.

  Brighid waded deeper, and then, with a deep sharp breath, dove under, feeling the icy waves close around her, and she heard then only the silent roar of the undersea world, muted and muffled and so loud, somehow. He was there. Beside her. Toeing off the seafloor with one foot, the other leg trailing behind, his hands pulling at the water.

  He reached out, and took her hand. His eyes were wide and round and not quite human, so dark, a seal’s eyes in a man’s face. “Listen.”

  “For what?”

  He shook his head. “Not hear, as to hear the birds or the waves or my words.” He tapped her chest, a brief but heart-palpitating contact of his finger just above her breasts. “Listen.”

  She held onto his hand and closed her eyes, and tried to listen, but she only heard the waves, the gulls. She felt him, though. So close. His hip touched hers, and his hand was huge and strong. She heard him, felt him. Only him.

  “Do you hear her?” He asked, after a while.

  She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Shook her head. “No. All I hear is you.”

  “I was silent.”

  “No…” She tapped his chest as he had hers. “All I heard was you.”

  A ghost of a smile, then. He drifted closer. She could just barely touch the seafloor with her toes, enough to keep her chin above the waves, which sometimes lapped against her nose and mouth so the taste of the sea was on her lips. And then all she could taste was him, his mouth, the brine on his lips and the heat of his breath, and his hands were closing around her, carving a hot wild path from her shoulder blades to the small of her back and paused there, as if to give her time to absorb the reality of his touch. She couldn’t breathe and didn’t want to, because this was like coming alive all at once, after so long being…something in between alive and dead.

  God, the ache. Her thighs quaked and clenched and she nuzzled closer, deepening the kiss, telling him with her body and her mouth and her hands burying in his beard that this was okay, more than okay, that she needed it. And then his hands slid down to cradle her buttocks, and she was gripping his arms and his shoulders and tracing the mighty muscles of his back and clutching his backside and she felt him nudging against her, his manhood pressing hot and hard against her womanhood.

  Brighid gasped at the feel of him, whimpered.

  Murtagh broke the kiss. “Breathe me. Trust in me.”

  “What?”

  He swelled his lungs to capacity, ble
w the breath out and sucked in an even greater inhalation, and then locked his mouth against hers and tumbled them backward together under the waves. Fully immersed, the cold burned, and then she felt nothing but Murtagh, his hands scouring her skin and his tongue on her teeth and his legs propelling them powerfully out into the currents. Where was his hide? His hands were all over her, so he wasn’t clutching it. Had he set it aside? Hidden it? She didn’t know, and the ability to think about it eroded as his kiss pressed breath into her lungs, as his hands ignited fiery desire inside her. Even injured he could swim with strength and grace and power that was very truly inhuman; he was carrying them together out into the depths, twisting them together beneath the waves, farther and farther from shore.

  Brighid clung to him and kissed him back and kicked her legs with his. The waves rolled above them and Murtagh’s powerful strokes carried them effortlessly. And then he was pressing against her entrance, and she moaned into his mouth and took him within her, and then she could hear the sea.

  Her song was deep and sorrowful and wild and joyful and exuberant and melancholy, a complex and multilayered creation of the many miles and leagues which makes up the sea, from the shores of Africa to China, from America to Ireland, and everything in between, as Murtagh moved with her, breathing for her, breathing through her, as his hands and lips and manhood fused with her skin and her mouth and private aching heat, she heard the sea in his movements, she heard the sea in his voice, she heard the sea in his movements. He was the sea, a creature of her, in her, from her. A being coalesced of pure oceanic power, distilled essence of the brine.

  Brighid wept at the voice of the sea. Her words were in a language Brighid did not know but somehow still understood, but as if hearing Gaelic spoken by a Scot, or through a translator. Unclear, but recognizable. The sea was inside Brighid, in her soul, in her blood, in her brain. In her bones and muscles and sliding through her most tender flesh. The sea was loving her.

  As their bodies merged and collided and slid and moved, Murtagh took them deeper and deeper until pressure weighed upon her ears and eyes and bones, and he twisted and rose up once more, gliding through the water with Brighid clutched in his arms, swimming with her in a graceful ballet, a mating dance at once animal and human.