He nodded, dropping his head to her shoulder. “Very close.”
“So, now that the drama is over—for now—I have a silly question.”
“Ask away.”
“What’s the difference between a Soul of the Sea and a Son of the Sea?”
He laughed, glancing up at her through his eyelashes. “A Son of the Sea is a male who’s been turned. Soul of the Sea refers to all of us, regardless of gender.”
***
Mykaela couldn’t sleep that night. She was still trying to wrap her head around the idea of cursed souls and people that hunt them. It seemed impossible, but so many things seem that way.
She wouldn’t have believed Dylan’s story, if she hadn’t seen him heal in front of her very eyes. But she had, and although logic and reason screamed against it, she believed him.
So many questions. When was he born? Why did he commit suicide? Did the Loch Ness monster exist, too?
She tossed her covers off and climbed out of bed. She’d go see him, get answers to all her questions.
She took the back staircase, and tiptoed down the narrow, creaky steps. She’d cut through the kitchen, and then sneak past Bobby’s room and wake Dylan. But, when she turned down the hallway and headed toward the kitchen, she noticed a sliver of light peeking out under the swinging door.
It was probably her mother, who was just as bad an insomniac as Mykaela. She turned to go back to her room, and that’s when she heard the footsteps. They were heavy, and the soles squeaked on the kitchen floor.
Bobby was never up past nine o’clock, and Dylan hardly made a sound when he moved. So who was in the kitchen?
She crept up to the doorway and pressed her ear against the wall. Inside, she could hear her mother talking.
“Every day it gets worse. The killer isn’t just taking people we love. He’s driving tourists away. I haven’t checked in a customer in two weeks. And the threat is always there, looming over my head. At any moment, he could take Mykaela.”
“Brad is working on a trap,” the gruff male voice said. “He’s smart, and he’s got good instincts. He’ll stop this monster.”
“Someone has to stop it.”
“I’d give anything to have John here with us now. He was the expert on the curse.”
Her father? An expert on sea curses? Mykaela felt her blood run cold as all of the pieces clicked together. Her father was trying to stop the attacks when he went into the ocean, but the souls of the sea killed him. How could her mother keep this from her all these years?
She felt sick to her stomach, and more than anything she wanted to go back to the time when she thought none of this existed. But, there was no going back. There was no forgetting.
Chapter Fifteen
Open Book
“I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to start,” she told Dylan as they walked along the beach toward the sea cave.
“You’re overwhelmed,” he said. “It’s normal, considering.”
She laughed. “You can say that again.” She tucked her hands inside her pockets. “Who were you before you died?”
“I came to this country in 1848, when the Great Famine drove my family from Ireland. We sailed on what was called a coffin ship. Fares were cheap, but there wasn’t a lot of food or water, and people who didn’t die from starvation often died of disease. It took my parents, and my little sister.” His voice quivered, and he swallowed hard to steady it. “We threw the deceased overboard to prevent the spread of disease.”
“That must have been horrible.”
“It was hard on me at first.” He stared straight ahead. “After awhile, this survival instinct kicked in. Almost like…every other part of me died, and left me with this fierce determination to make it to America. I was sure everything would be better, if I could only make it here. I wouldn’t let compassion, or empathy or sentiment stop me.”
“How old were you then?”
“Nine.”
“You were only nine years old?” When she was nine, she was watching Rainbow Brite and making sand castles with Charity. She couldn’t imagine experiencing so much pain at such a young age.
He nodded. “Another passenger, who’d seen my parents die, took me in. Kind of like an informal adoption. When we landed in Boston, the two of us found work as servants to a wealthy Bostonian family. With this particular family, what they held in wealth, they lacked in class. They were unbelievably rude and biased against the Irish. They thought we were born and bred to be slaves. Temperamental drunks, bumbling idiots…the stereotypes went on and on. It was common, though, and most immigrants learned to tolerate the injustice. I put up with it for as long as I could.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Until I was fourteen, and I couldn’t take it one more day. So, I ran away. I needed to believe that there was something better out there.
“After a very long journey, most of which I walked, I wound up here. I was lost in the woods, about to starve, with swollen and bloody feet, when a man named William Whindom found me.”
“My great-great-grandfather?”
He smiled at the irony. “Close. Try adding a couple more greats.” He tried to grin at her, but it looked forced and uncomfortable. “He was very kind. He took me in, gave me a job—and respect. When he found out I possessed a knack for carving things, he asked me to build the banister in the lobby.”
She gasped and grabbed his arms to stop him. “You did the banister? With those perfect little doves sitting on the olive branches?”
He smiled proudly. “Every inch.”
She was overcome by emotion. The guy she was falling in love with carved her favorite part of the house with his own two hands. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “It’s so beautiful. It’s been my favorite feature of the house for as long as I can remember.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “Want to see something else that’s beautiful?”
He stepped away from her and closed his eyes, spreading his arms out at his sides. As he concentrated, a storm brewed overhead. Clouds rolled against the sky, darkening, twisting and rumbling. A small flash of lightning dashed across them, highlighting the grey and black colors.
Then a jagged bolt sprang down and touched the sand right in front of where Dylan stood. A single flame sprouted and burned out, as quick as the lightning.
“Wow,” she said, amazed and a little frightened. “You did that?”
“One of the perks.” He knelt down and scooped something out of the smoldering area of sand. It must be scalding hot, but he didn’t flinch, he just moved his hands, molding and forming something she couldn’t see.
Turning to her, he unfastened the silver chain from around his neck. He held up a piece of glass, a beautiful aquamarine color. It was shaped like the lightning bolt that just touched down, and was about an inch long. “It’s called fulgurite,” he said, as he slipped the chain through a loop at the top of the ornament. “Glass formed when lightning strikes sand. It’s really rare, unless of course, you happen to know someone who can control the weather.” He grinned at her.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, as all trace of the storm disappeared so the rays of sun could bounce and gleam off the glass.
“And very different from your average fulgurite.” He walked behind her to fasten the necklace around her throat. “You notice the bluish color? That means it came from a Son’s powers. It’s also solid—most fulgurite is hollow.” He let go of the necklace and wrapped his arms around her, much like when he’d consoled her after Charity’s death.
Except, this time, she wasn’t fighting him off. This time, she was snuggling in and feeling safe. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”
He kissed the top of her head.
She smiled, enjoying the feel of his body against hers. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
“There’s just one thing I don’t understand.” She bit her lip, choosing her words. “If you’re such a survivor, and
clearly you are, why did you kill yourself?”
His arms stiffened around her.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That was so rude. I—"
“No, it’s okay.” He stepped away from her. “You have a right to know, I just…I can’t talk about it. Not yet.”
She nodded and reached out to him, hoping she could stop him before he clammed up on her again.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I have to go.” He walked away, and left her standing on the beach alone. Again.
***
Mykaela walked back to where she parked her car, thankful she’d brought it. If she hadn’t, she’d be forced to walk home in the dark, and that really gave her the creeps. The road was deserted, without a single person or car in sight.
Mykaela reached across the consol to the passenger seat, digging in her purse for her iPod. She figured listening to some music would help her stop worrying about Dylan, and where he’d gone after leaving her on the beach, or why he’d killed himself to start with. When she pulled it out of her purse, though, something small and furry darted across the road. She jerked the steering wheel, swerving to miss the animal, and her iPod tumbled to the passenger’s side floorboard.
She sighed, biting her lip as she debated on whether to stop and reach for it or keep going without the music. Seeing no other cars around, she leaned over the gearstick, stretching her arm out as she fumbled for the iPod. Grabbing it, she sat back up to realize she’d just blown through a stop sign.
She heard sirens and saw flashing lights. With a sigh, she pulled over and watched the squad car park behind her. Reluctantly, she turned her car off, and then groaned when she saw Brad walking up behind her.
She rolled her window down.
“Step out of the car.”
“No.” She glared at him. “Why?”
“You’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
He pulled out his handcuffs, his lips curled upward in that self-satisfied grin. “You just ran that stop sign.”
She laughed. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“I’m not going to say it again.”
She shook her head and reached for the ignition key.
He yanked the door open and grabbed her arm. He heaved her out of the car and slammed her face-first against the side of it. “Thank you so much for that. Now I can say you tried to run.”
“This is crazy.” She struggled against him as he fastened the handcuffs around her wrists. “You know this will never hold up.”
With her hands bound behind her back, he grabbed her by one arm and dragged over to his squad car.
Chapter Sixteen
Smudging the Line
With her arms crossed over her chest, Mykaela sat on the lumpy, disgusting bed inside the jail cell. The police station—the tiny brick building with a total of two cells—was unstaffed, except for Brad, who sat at the sheriff’s desk with his feet propped up on the wooden surface. His fingers were laced together and draped across his chest, and he tapped his toes back and forth as he whistled the Three’s Company theme song.
The tune was more than getting on her nerves. “Would you just stop it?” She shot him a scowl. “How long do you plan on keeping me in here?”
He shrugged. “Until you help me kill Dylan.”
“That’s never going to happen.”
He pushed back from the desk and stood up, walking toward her. “You know he’s responsible for what’s going on around here, right?” He propped his weight on the table pushed against the wall just outside her cell. “Charity’s death, for instance. You do remember Charity, don’t you?”
Her whole body trembled with rage. “Dylan didn’t kill her.”
“And Santa Claus really brings us presents.”
“I’ve had it with you!” She stood up, rushing to the bars. “I know you’re hurting because of what happened to Charity, but you’ve more than crossed the line this time.”
“What line?” he asked. “Between good and evil? Tell me, which side is your boyfriend on?”
“He’s good,” she said. “I don’t know who’s behind all of this, but I can tell you it’s not him.”
“Right, because your word is worth so much.”
She bit her lip and resigned herself to silence. Leaning her forehead against the cool bars, she watched Brad as he strolled over to the desk and leaned against it.
“I can’t believe you.” He looked down his nose at her in disgust. “Sleeping with the enemy. You’re a traitor. To your family of Hunters, to the human race. To your best friend.”
The words stung—even though she would have rather died than let him hurt her. “How do you think Charity would feel if she knew how you were treating me?”
For a split second, she saw emotion flicker on his face, almost as if he felt guilty. Just as quickly as it showed up, it disappeared, and he clenched his teeth in an expression angrier than ever before. Keeping his cold gaze on her, he reached behind him and flipped open a folder on the desk. He took something out of it, then moved toward her.
Standing in front of the jail cell, he placed the stack of papers on the table and held up a photograph.
Charity. The picture was a full shot of her body, lying on the beach, soaking wet. Her tanned skin looked waxy and stiff, and her lips were parted in a scream. Her blue eyes were wide open in terror, exactly as she’d looked in the water.
Mykaela clutched her stomach as bile burned her throat. She turned, wanting to look anywhere but at that photo. In an instant, Brad snaked his arm through the bars, grabbed her elbow and yanked her against the metal, forcing her to stay.
He placed the picture back on the table and picked up another, showing her one that displayed Charity’s right wrist. The bracelet she always wore was gone, replaced by a brand that looked like a dolphin—burned into her skin.
The nausea did a violent dance in Mykaela’s stomach, and she cried. She pulled against Brad’s hold, but his grip was too tight and she couldn’t move. Mykaela wrapped her free hand around one of the bars, clenching it as tightly as she could, as if that could release the pain.
He picked up another snapshot.
This one was of the back of Charity’s head. Gooey, thick crimson chunks of blood were matted into her blond hair, along with pieces of sand and a strand of seaweed.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, and Mykaela squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to puke.
“Look at it.” Brad’s demanding shout made her flinch. “Look! You owe it to Charity.”
Mykaela opened her eyes, the tears blurring her vision. Despite how hard she tried to stay calm, her voice quivered. “You’re sick.”
“No, you’re sick. You got away. And Charity…” He pushed the photo up against the bars, right into Mykaela’s face. “This is what she got.”
Mykaela stared at the bloody mess on the back of Charity’s skull, her mind flashing back to that day in the water, and the red swirls that flowed from Charity’s head.
Brad removed the picture, laying it on the table. Her arm felt crushed under his grip, but he didn’t let up. Lowering his voice, he leaned in close. “Now tell me what happened.”
She struggled to breathe, to think of anything but the violent, impossible twists of Charity’s body as the water tossed her around, trying to block out the waxy appearance of her skin in the photograph. “Okay,” she whimpered, forcing herself to look at him. “I’ll tell you.”
***
Jared slammed his phone shut when Morrigan’s voicemail picked up. He needed to talk to her. Worse than that, he was shaking because he couldn’t reach her.
He bit down hard on his lip and dialed her number again, hating himself every second. This time, her voicemail picked up straight away, as if she’d just turned her phone off. To turn her phone off, she would have seen his missed calls.
He hurled his phone against the windshield, watching as the back of it snapped off and the battery tumbled to th
e floorboards. Why was she doing this to him?
As he passed the police station, he made a spur of the moment decision to turn into the parking lot. He’d use the computer to look up her records, he thought. At least it would give him something to do, other than calling her.
Still, before he climbed out of the car, he put his phone back together and made sure it was turned on. Just in case.
He walked into the police station, rubbing a hand over his face. “Hey, man,” he said. “Can I—”
“I’ll tell you.” The soft, whimpering voice caused him to glance up.
Across the room, Brad held Mykaela’s arm in a tight grip, and she was crying, pressed up against the bars of a jail cell. Spotting him, Brad released her and Mykaela rushed away from him, to the far side of the cubicle, still holding on to the bars.
“Jared, let me out of here!” She pointed at Brad. “He arrested me for running a freaking stop sign.”
Jared looked back at Brad, trying to believe what he’d just seen—his best friend, hurting his sister.
“Dylan’s a Son of the Sea,” Brad said, as if that justified everything. He sauntered away from Mykaela, toward the sheriff’s desk. “She’s dating him. This is for her own good.”
“Oh, puh-leeze,” she yelled. “Ever since Charity died, he’s been bullying me and pushing me around. Now he thinks Dylan’s murdering the girls, but he’s not.”
“He’s a monster, Mykaela! It’s in his nature—"
“Okay, okay, okay!” Jared held his hands up to silence both of them. “First of all,” he said, turning to Brad. “Get her out of there.”
Rolling his eyes, Brad tossed him the key. Jared walked over to the cell and let her out, then stepped in front of her to block Brad from her sight. “What do you mean he’s been bullying you?”
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