Sins Against the Sea

by Nina Mason

  MacInnes had gone below to tinker with the engine, which had begun to make a funny sputtering noise just before he shut it off. She preferred to be up on deck, enjoying the fresh air and keeping an eye out for trouble.

  Not that she expected any. Ronay had been quiet when they set sail and she’d seen no sign of Finlay Trowbridge or Peter Blackwell, for that matter, who she now strongly suspected might be a Finman as well. Peter hailed from Orkney, after all, and was tall and dark like his pal Trowbridge.

  When she’d offered to stay on deck and keep watch, MacInnes had laughed and said, “Seems to me there’s not much point in looking out for a man who can make himself invisible.”

  Even if he was right, she felt better standing guard. She had set up her look-out on the back end of the boat—the stern, she believed it was called. The cardiologist had owned a small sailboat he kept docked up in Ventura. The one time he took her sailing, he’d told her the names of all the parts, but she’d been too terrified of falling overboard to retain much of the lesson.

  She was just as terrified now. Despite the life vest and being able to breathe under water. Phobias weren’t rational, after all. The squeak of a shoe on the deck boards behind her jolted her heart and made her prickle with alarm. Please, let it be MacInnes…or, better yet, Kew-in back from the cove.

  Slowly, she turned to see who was there. The blood in her face rushed to her stomach when she saw Finlay Trowbridge standing there. His eyes were dark, menacing, and trained on her. So was the gun in his hand.

  “You couldn’t just do as you were told and stay out of it, could you? I told Peter not to trust a woman. Women are always sticking their noses in where they don’t belong.”

  Corey wrapped her arms around herself as she cast about for something to use to defend herself. To her distress, there was nowhere to go and nothing to grab. Not that it would help if there were. Trowbridge was strong, magical, and armed.

  She licked her top lip, tasting the sweat beading just above. “W-what are you g-going to do to me?”

  “Kill you if I have to.” His scowl deepened, further distorting his apelike features. “But I’d rather take you someplace you can’t make any more trouble.”

  The deck rail pressed into her backside as she stepped away from him on wobbly legs. “Where would that be?”

  “Hether Blether, and then, Finfolkaheem.”

  Kew-in. Help me!

  She didn’t know if he could hear her at this distance, but it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try. She could not let Trowbridge take her to Finfolkaheem. She’d be his prisoner, his slave, for the rest of her life. Worse yet, he might marry her and turn her into a hideous Finwife. She didn’t know what happened to half-blood Finmaids who married mermen, and it didn’t look as though she’d ever find out. If Trowbridge took her, Kew-in would never find her and might never even know what had happened to her.

  Her hope buoyed when Lachlan MacInnes appeared behind Trowbridge. She held her breath as the reporter crept up from behind. He had a wrench, which he appeared ready to bring down on Trowbridge’s head. Just as the journalist got within striking range, Trowbridge turned and fired. MacInnes staggered backward, clutching his chest.

  Heart hammering, Corey spun round and grabbed the rail with white-knuckled fingers. Her instincts told her to jump, but fear kept her on the deck. Though her body was frozen, her mind was racing and her chest was in a vise. It took every ounce of courage she could muster to force herself to put her feet on the rail. As soon as she had, something hit the back of her head, knocking her forward. Losing her footing, she fell over the side. The sudden, engulfing cold shocked her senseless as she hit the water and plunged downward.

  Kew-in! Help me!

  Breathe, Cordelia. Breathe.

  Hope blossomed inside her like a red tide as her gills ripped open. It was Kew-in. He’d heard her. But would he reach her in time? She didn’t have to wait long for her answer. Someone plunged into the water beside her, but who? Kew-in, MacInnes, or Trowbridge? As she waited for the bubbles surrounding his body to clear, she forgot about breathing, forgot about propelling herself toward the surface. She even forgot about trying to escape.

  The man, his identity still shrouded in silvery bubbles, swam toward her and put his arm around her neck. As he towed her toward the surface, he tightened his grip on her throat, blocking her gills.

  Dark spots mottled her vision. Her head was spinning and her limbs were growing numb. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, and couldn’t take in air. He was strangling her. Stealing her life.

  By the time they broke the surface, she was hanging onto consciousness by an unraveling thread. He pulled her a short distance and climbed out of the water, leaving her adrift. She couldn’t see the boat he’d boarded, but the sound of slapping water told her it was there. Hands hooked her armpits and pulled her up. As he deposited her on the invisible deck, a lightning bolt of pain cracked across her skull just before everything went black.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eager to reach Cordelia, Cuan propelled his body through the lagoon’s crystalline water. Cearban was still there, still anchored. So, why had she called to him for help?

  Cordelia, are you all right? Please, answer me.

  She didn’t answer, increasing his distress? At least when he could hear her, he knew she was still alive. He swam as fast as he could; cursing his uncooperative appendages with every arrested stroke he took. Humans may have crawled out of the ocean once upon a time, but they were no longer engineered to move effortlessly through the water. If he still had his tail, he could cross the distance to the boat in less than half the time.

  Robharta had not come, but Corey’s distress call took precedence over everything. What could be wrong? He could think of only two possibilities, neither of which relieved his anxiety. Either MacInnes had gotten fresh with her or Trowbridge had appeared. Cuan hadn’t seen the Finman trailing after them from Ronay, but that did not mean he’d not been doing so. Finfolk vanishing magic made it possible for the menacing creatures to appear as if from out of nowhere.

  Cuan’s heart nearly exploded when something bumped against him. So intent was he on reaching the boat, he’d not seen the dolphin come alongside. It was Delphine, his dolphin friend.

  Come play, Cuan. Come chase me through the reef.

  I cannot, Delphine. Someone I care for is in trouble—and I must get to her as soon as I’m able.

  If you are talking about the red-haired lass, you will not find her on the boat.

  Why not? Where did she go?

  A Finman took her. I followed him here through the strait from Uist. Though I could see neither him nor his boat, I could see the wake it left in the water.

  This dolphin’s tale distressed Cuan, but also triggered an idea.

  Perhaps we could play a game after all. How would you like to follow the Finman’s boat? Let us see how fast you can swim while towing me along.

  That sounds like fun. How far do you wish to follow him?

  As far as he is going.

  Cuan grabbed hold of Delphine’s dorsal fin and held tight as they plowed through the icy water. When they reached the Minch, the sea was so choppy they could not differentiate the wake of the Finman’s boat from the rest of the surface activity.

  I’m sorry, Cuan.

  Do not be, Delphine. I have a reasonably good idea where the Finman is taking her.

  Where?

  Hether Blether, the last invisible isle of Orkney.

  But, I do not know where Hether Blether can be found.

  Nor do I…though I have been told it lies near Eynhallow. So let us first go there.

  Robharta had told him all about the islands there. Eynhallow, a tiny isle wedged between mainland Orkney and Rousay, was surrounded by ferocious tides she called “roosts.”

  While people no longer lived on Eynhallow, they still visited the island. According to the selkie, the ruins of an old kirk, among other crumbling dwellings, could be found on the is
land and humans, for reasons that escaped him, delighted in paying homage to the vestiges of their abandoned civilizations.

  Cuan still wore the clothes he’d put on that morning. Jeans and a T-shirt, now sodden with seawater. As much of a drag as the wet denim was proving to be, he did not relish the idea of confronting a Finman or anyone else he might meet in the buff. For one, he felt vulnerable in his breeding form. For another, his unclad body would give him away as something other than human.

  By the time he and Delphine reached the outskirts of Eynhallow, Cuan’s arms ached with fatigue. The dolphin left him there and, after fighting his way through the shoals and brutal eddies protecting the island, he crawled out of the surf and stayed on all fours on the black-sand beach while he recovered his breath and strength.

  When he felt more himself, he got to his feet, wiped the sand from his hands onto his seawater-soaked jeans, and took in his surroundings. The island was only about a quarter-mile long and, from where he stood, he could see all the way across the flat green expanse to the stretch of sea separating Eynhallow from the mainland. Gulls wheeled on the strong, brisk wind overhead. Clearly unaccustomed to two-legged company, they raised a ruckus when they sighted him.

  He decided to walk the island’s perimeter. He did not know in which direction Hether Blether lay, nor what sort of land mass to look for, but he was nevertheless determined to search for it.

  Apart from the roar of the sea and the shrieking birds, the island was blissfully quiet. When he was nearly back where he’d started, he found himself atop a bluff overlooking a pretty cove. As he began to climb down, he saw something that set his pulse to racing. There was a woman in the cove. A woman who looked exactly like Cordelia. She was sitting on the beach, gazing out to sea. From the waist down, she appeared to have a tail.

  Halo!

  The mermaid turned with a start, clearly having heard him. He hung back, afraid of scaring her off. He wanted to talk to her and learn what she knew about Hether Blether and the Finfolk.

  My name is Cuan. I am a warrior of Clan MacMuir. A Finman abducted my girlfriend, a half-blood Finmaid, and I have come to take her back.

  My name is Aerwyna. I, too, am a Finmaid.

  I need your help, Aerwyna.

  Come closer, Cuan, and let me have a look at you.

  Cuan climbed down from the bluff and walked to where she sat. The wind, though cold, had helped to dry his clothes and hair, but the jeans were still damp against his legs.

  The Finmaid, who resembled Cordelia to an alarming degree, took a moment to look him up and down. “She must be something special to capture the heart of one such as yourself.”

  “She is.”

  “She is half Finmaid, you say?”

  “Aye. I believe so.”

  “I have no love for your kind,” she said, “but dislike Finmen even more. For they, too, treat those of my sex with no respect. But at least Glauckodais do not abduct and enslave their breeding partners—or turn them into hideous hags no other creature could desire.”

  “I love her,” he said simply, “and would never treat her badly.”

  Cuan was growing impatient. While he would gladly sing Cordelia’s praises all day long, he needed to save her from the Finman before he took her into Finfolkaheem, where he could not follow.

  “What is your friend’s name?”

  “Cordelia.”

  “I have a daughter called Cordelia.” Her expression turned sad.

  “Given the resemblance, she might well be your Cordelia.”

  She looked up at him with liquid eyes. “My Cordelia lives in California.”

  “So does mine,” he said, eager to be away from her. Finmaids were irresistible seductresses whose charms were not lost on Glauckodais—even the ones who preferred their own sex. “She came to Scotland to help with an oil spill off the coast of Ronay. She works for Conch Oil.”

  “So did her father.”

  “Then, she must be your daughter.”

  “Yes, it does sound as if she is.”

  “Then, please,” he said, growing desperate. “Help me get her back.”

  “But how? What can I do?”

  “Tell me what you know about the Finfolk. What are their weaknesses? How can I overcome their vanishing magic?”

  “I can only tell you the stories I know.”

  “Then, do—in as few words as possible, please. For I must get her back before she is lost to me forever.”

  “Then I will tell you the tale of the farmer who drove the Finfolk away from Eynhallow, and you can take from it whatever you will.”

  He sat in the sand and she began her story.

  “The Goodman of Thorodale was a widower with three sons before he married the bonniest lass in Evie, whom he loved with all his heart. One day, while down on the ebb with his wife, Thorodale stopped to tie his shoestring. As he bent to the task, his wife, who was nearer the sea, let out a piercing scream. He turned just in time to see a tall, dark man dragging his wife toward a boat. Thorodale rushed down to the water’s edge and waded after them, but the dark man had already rowed out to sea.

  “By the time the farmer reached his own wee boat, the Finman was nowhere to be seen, having used his sorcery to hide himself from human sight. Thorodale, both enraged and aggrieved, fell to his knees in the surf then and there and swore he’d have vengeance upon the Finfolk.

  “For many a long night and day thereafter, Thorodale thought upon how to get his revenge, but could conceive no method. Then, while out fishing one day in the sound between Rousay and Evie, he heard his wife singing out of the mist:

  “Goodman, grieve no more for me,

  For me again you’ll never see;

  If you would have of vengeance joy

  Go ask the wise spae-wife of Hoy.

  “Returning to shore, Thorodale grabbed his staff and his silver and set off for the island of Hoy. In exchange for the silver, the wise woman told him how to see through the mists of invisibility the Finfolk conjured. Behind them was a small island called Eynhallow—the Holy Island in the language of the Norsemen. “This island is their home in the world above the waves,” she continued, “and nothing would punish them more than to take the island from them.”

  Anxious for answers, Cuan interrupted her story. “But—I must know what the wise woman told him. How did he see through the mists?”

  “Be patient, Blue Man.” Aerwyna fixed him with a reproachful glare. “Listen and learn.”

  After scolding him, she went on with the tale. “Thorodale sailed home from Hoy and did as the wise woman instructed. When next the moon was full, he went to Stenness and, upon the stroke of midnight, walked around the Odin Stone while asking the god for the power to see Eynhallow. After doing this for nine months, he bought a large quantity of salt and three large baskets.

  “Then, one summer morning, just after sunrise, Thorodale looked out across the sound and saw Eynhallow for the first time in his life. Without taking his eyes from the island, he took his steel dagger in hand and called out to his three sons, ‘Fill the baskets with salt and wait for the boat.’

  “Down they came with the baskets of salt, which they set in the boat before jumping in. Pulling together, the four of them rowed into the roost. The sons were perplexed by their father’s orders, for they could not see the island. Soon, the boat was surrounded by whales. The three sons, fearing the whales, argued for turning back. ‘Pull for your lives,’ he cried, ignoring their protests.

  “Then, a great whale opened its mouth right in the boat’s path. Again, his sons pleaded to turn back and again, Thorodale stood firm. Standing on the bow, facing down those terrible jaws, the farmer threw a double handful of salt into the whale’s mouth, after which the creature vanished. The whale had been no more than an apparition, you see—a trick of the Finmen’s sorcery—and the salt, being a purifying substance, destroyed their evil magic.

  “The boat was now fast nearing Eynhallow. Two ugly Finwives stood waist-deep at the shore. S
o hideous were they to behold, his sons left off rowing. Never taking his gaze from the magical island, the father kicked the lads out of their stupor. When they resumed rowing, he cried to the Finwives, while throwing crosses at them, ‘Be gone, you unholy heathens!’

  “The Finwives plunged beneath the waves with pitiful shrieks just as the boat’s bow touched the enchanted shore. But the Finmen had not yet exhausted their tricks. On the beach, awaiting the boat was a huge and horrible monster with tusks as long as a man’s arms, feet as broad as quern stones, blazing yellow eyes, and breath of fire. Undaunted, Thorodale leaped out of the boat and threw a handful of salt in the creature’s face. With a terrible growl, the monster vanished. In its place, stood the same dark creature who’d stolen the farmer’s wife. He wore a scowl and held a sword, ready to fight.

  “‘Go back,’ the Finman roared. ‘You that came to rob our land be gone! Or I’ll wash the beaches of Eynhallow with your blood.’

  “When the three sons heard the threat, they begged their father to return to the boat, but Thorodale held his ground. The Finman lunged, thrusting his sword at the farmer’s chest. Stepping aside, Thorodale flung a cross made of sticky grass at the dark creature. One of the crosses stuck to his face. The Finman, roaring in pain and fury, turned and fled.

  “Returning to his cowering sons, Thorodale instructed them to bring the salt ashore. Though afraid, they did as their father bade. He then told them to walk abreast around the island, scattering salt as they went. As they did this, the Finfolk came out of the houses and byres, screaming and running like a flock of sheep with snapping dogs at their heels. One and all ran down to the beach, jumped into their boats, and rowed away.

  “Satisfied, Thorodale cut nine crosses on the turf of the island while his three sons went three times around, scattering nine rings of salt in all. From that day to this, no Finman has again set foot on this island.”