Sea Lord

by Virginia Kantra

  “She died,” said the big, dark boy.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said.

  The girl shrugged, her eyes cool blue and disdainful. “She was human.”

  Her casual dismissal chilled Lucy. She was human. Did that mean . . .

  “Are you a teacher?” asked the tawny-haired boy.

  “I . . .” Lucy dragged her scattered thoughts together. “Yes.”

  “We don’t need a teacher anymore,” the girl said.

  The boy shot her a look. “Speak for yourself.”

  “Suck-up,” taunted his companion.

  The wiry teen clenched his fists. “Stupid.”

  “Fisheyes.”

  “Tell me your names,” Lucy said. As if this was the first day of school, the first fight on the playground.

  The tough guy scowled, unwilling, maybe, to back down in front of the girl.

  “Iestyn,” said the other boy, the one with the strange, pale eyes. “This is Roth.”

  The girl tossed her head. “Kera.”

  She looked like a model, a girl made up to look like an adult. A beautiful almost adult in a short silk tunic the color of apricots that left her arms and most of her legs bare. Beside her, Lucy felt like a scarecrow. She resisted the urge to pull the slicker tighter.

  “I’m Lucy.”

  “Warden said to call you Miss Hunter.”

  She smiled easily, encouragingly. “I think we can drop the ‘Miss.’ I’m not that much older than you.”

  For some reason that made the bigger boy laugh.

  Iestyn poked him to shut him up. “Warden said anything you want, you can ask us.”

  Anything you want . . . She would have killed for a shower. A long, hot one. But she suspected enchanted castles didn’t run to indoor plumbing.

  “Maybe . . . A fire?” she suggested hopefully.

  Iestyn nodded. “We brought wood. And water for your bath.”

  “The prince said you would want one,” the girl—Kera—said.

  Conn had ordered her a bath.

  Something softened in the center of Lucy’s chest. That was thoughtful. It didn’t make up for kidnapping her, of course, but she could still appreciate the gesture.

  Roth came back with a bundle of driftwood and dumped it by the empty fireplace.

  Lucy roused. “I can do that.” She nudged Madadh out of the way to kneel on the cold stone hearth.

  While she arranged wood and kindling, Kera drifted from the room, delivering an armload of towels before disappearing again. Iestyn and Roth trudged in and out, dragging in a copper tub big enough to sit in and buckets of clear, hot water. A faint sulfur smell rose with the steam.

  Lucy shivered with cold and anticipation. “Did you have to boil all that?”

  Iestyn grinned and leaned down to strike a spark to the fire. “No, there’s a spring deep in the cliffs under the castle. Where all the elements meet, earth and air, fire and water. But—”

  “It’s a bitch of a climb,” Roth said.

  “But my lord thought you would appreciate some privacy on your first night,” Iestyn continued.

  Roth snickered.

  Blood surged in Lucy’s face. They weren’t talking about the bath anymore. Conn’s clothes hung in the armoire. This was his room. She sat back on her heels, hoping the boys would blame her sudden flush on the fire. She cleared her throat. “I bet you enjoy that. Having your own hot springs, I mean.”

  “Oh, aye,” Roth said darkly. “If you don’t mind demons looking at your butt.”

  Iestyn’s bucket slipped, splashing water out of the tub.

  Roth jumped back, cursing. “You great wanker!”

  “Here.” Lucy got between them with a towel, reassured by their squabbling, glad for something to do. They were just boys after all.

  She mopped up the mess while the fire crackled and the boys trudged in with more buckets and went out again. Red shadows danced on the hearth. Under the slicker, a line of sweat traced down Lucy’s back. She glanced from the half full tub to the open door and sighed. She was not getting naked in front of the boys. Still she was beginning to relax, lulled by the fire and their uncomplicated wrangling, soothed by the promise of the bath and the possibility of clean clothes.

  To pass the time, she opened the trunk.

  A long red buttoned cloak lay on top. She lifted it carefully, shaking the scent of lavender from its folds. Below were neat piles of thin drawers and thick socks, tidy stacks of yellowed shifts and bright shawls, sturdy dresses of no particular color or style. She looked dubiously at some of the dresses. The waists were so tiny, the shoulders so tight. Several pieces she was sure would fit: a hooded cape in deep green velvet, a padded turquoise robe, a sheer silk nightgown that whispered of seduction.

  Everything was clean and creased, as if it had been lying unused for a long time. Lucy frowned. A very long time.

  When the boys came back, Lucy was smoothing the wrinkles from the green cape, trying not to notice how her hand trembled against the velvet. “Your teacher, Miss March . . . How old was she?”

  Iestyn looked surprised. “Almost a hundred, I guess.”

  Lucy’s heartbeat quickened. Her suspicions grew. “And how long ago did she die?”

  “I don’t . . .”

  Kera reappeared and set a silver hand mirror on one of the chairs. “Fifty years ago.”

  Iestyn nodded. “Maybe more.”

  “But you knew her. She taught you.” Her mouth dried. Over fifty years ago.

  “Aye.” Roth’s grin revealed strong white teeth. “The prince said he was not having us grow up as little savages.”

  “But we were the last,” Kera said. “Or almost the last.”

  Iestyn set another bucket on the hearth. “There was Dylan.”

  “But he had already gone through the Change before he came,” Roth said.

  “We were the last on Sanctuary,” Kera said.

  Lucy moistened her lips. Her pulse drummed in her ears. “The last what?”

  Iestyn regarded her with wide gold eyes. “Why, the last children.”

  Conn’s tower overlooked the sea. But despite the western views of the sunset, the eastern views of the purpling sky, the drafts that slid over the thick stone sills and skittered along the floor, the air was thick and hard to breathe. He felt the pressure in his chest. The tension in the room was palpable.

  Half a dozen wardens gathered around the map spread across his desk. His gaze rested on them in turn. Griff, solid as a castle wall. Morgan of the northern deeps, in the black and silver of the finfolk. Enya, her breast as white and round as the pearls twined in her hair. Brychan. Kelvan. Ronat. They crowded without touching, protecting their personal space with planted feet and angled elbows. Even gathered in council, the selkie were solitary. Territorial.

  The bloodied sun cast pink rectangles on the floor and across the desk, but the map needed no illumination. The heavy parchment glittered with pinpricks of light like constellations fallen from heaven. Each glowing dot represented an elemental’s energy.

  The angels’ white brilliance was lost in the great gray swathes of humanity that covered the continents. But all the other elementals twinkled and winked, their energies coaxed to sparks by Conn’s magic: green for the children of the earth, the fair folk, clustered in the wild places, woods and mountain ranges; red for the children of fire, flickering along fault lines; blue for the children of the sea, scattered across the oceans like a smattering of stars.

  Ignoring the headache pulsing in his temples, Conn spread his hands over the map, focusing his concentration, until he felt the demon lord Gau’s presence like a burning coal against his palm.

  Opening his eyes, he tapped the map with one finger. “Gau is there. Coming from the fault lines of Yn Eslynn.”

  “When?” Ronat asked.

  “Soon.” Conn rubbed his burned palm absently. “Tomorrow, at a guess. Post a guard on the spring and another on shore to meet him when he comes.”

  Enya frowne
d, flipping her red hair back over her shoulder. “Why the shore? Do you think he will come in human form?”

  Unlike the other elements, fire had no matter of its own. Lacking physical bodies, demons could move with the speed of thought. However, to speak, to act, the children of fire needed to assume corporal form. Most demons resorted to possessing living hosts. The powerful ones, like Gau, could borrow enough matter from the elements around them to present at least the appearance of living things.

  “He has no need of a human body on Sanctuary,” Griff said.

  “Not if his intention is merely to talk,” Morgan countered. “But if he is looking for a fight—”

  “He would not seek it on our soil,” Conn said. “I believe he will manifest, for convenience and as a demonstration of strength.”

  “And what of our other visitor?” Enya asked.

  Conn stiffened.

  Morgan, the golden-eyed, silver-haired lord of the finfolk, frowned. “What visitor?”

  “She is none of your concern,” Conn said.

  Enya’s smile showed all her teeth. “Then why bring her to Sanctuary?”

  “What visitor?” Brychan repeated.

  “Our prince has brought a human female to Sanctuary,” Enya said.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Griff rumbled.

  Enya touched the warden’s mark among the pearls on her bosom. “Of course not. Anyone might enjoy a human liaison. But to bring her here—”

  “She is the daughter of Atargatis,” Conn said.

  They knew the prophecy. A daughter of the house of Atargatis would change the balance of power among the elementals.

  Ronat rubbed his jaw. “I thought the only offspring was a son. Dylan.”

  “Dylan is the only selkie,” Conn said evenly. “Nevertheless, the girl carries her mother’s blood.”

  “But she is human,” Brychan objected.

  “Her children might not be,” Griff said.

  “Assuming she can have children,” Enya said, her voice as tight as a sail.

  Conn heard her resentment with regret. Long ago, the warden had offered her body to bear him an heir, a child to secure both their futures. He had used her for a time with all his considerable patience and skill. But their union was barren, and after repeated failures, Enya had chafed at staying at Sanctuary to breed. Her return to the sea had been a relief to them both.

  “We cannot predict what her children would be,” Conn said smoothly. Our children. Mine. His surge of possessiveness shook him. “But she is heir to the prophecy.”

  “Then you have put her at risk by bringing her here,” Morgan said. “You put us all at risk. Gau is coming. If he discovers her presence—”

  “Who’s going to tell him?” Griff growled. “You?”

  Conn leashed his own fury and fear to speak calmly. The leader of the finfolk accepted Conn as liege in his father’s place, but among his own people Morgan was a prince, with a prince’s pride. He gave Conn fealty; Conn tendered respect in return. “So far the demons have not considered her a threat.”

  “If she is not a threat to them, then she is of no use to us.”

  “She has power. More than they know.” Almost to himself, Conn added, “More than she is aware of herself.”

  “Then how do you know she will not use it against us?” Morgan asked.

  Six pairs of eyes turned to Conn with varying degrees of accusation and trust. He was strangely reluctant to share what had happened between them. And yet his wardens had the right to know.

  “I have bound her,” he said bluntly.

  Ronat grinned.

  Morgan’s golden eyes glinted. “At least I understand now why you brought her here.”

  “Sex?” Enya’s voice was shrill with scorn. “You could have sex with anyone.”

  And have, her tone implied.

  Conn looked at her without speaking. It was true. He could have anyone. But he did not want anyone else.

  He only wanted Lucy.

  The cold beat against the windows like the sound of the sea. Inside the stone chamber the fire pulsed like a heart, pumping heat into the room and through her veins.

  Lucy had washed her bra and panties in the tub and draped them over the back of one of the thrones to dry. Her damp hair hung over her shoulders. Despite her layers of clothing—padded turquoise robe, fine silk nightgown, thick wool stockings—she felt ridiculously underdressed.

  She tightened her sash around her waist. Her stomach growled.

  She glanced at the table set by the fire. Iestyn had carried away the bath and brought her dinner on a tray. As if she were sick. Or in jail. Her gaze lingered on the covered silver serving pieces and heavy-footed tureen. Definitely not prison dishes. There were knives.

  And two wineglasses.

  Nerves danced in her stomach. The high-backed chairs stood empty. Waiting. Where was Conn?

  Madadh’s tail thumped lazily on the threshold. Lucy’s heart beat a little faster. She looked up.

  Conn filled the doorway, broader than Caleb, taller than Dylan. The firelight gleamed on his sleek, dark hair, slid greedily over his proud, strong-featured face.

  She felt a pull in the pit of her belly and dropped her gaze.

  “You have not eaten.” An observation, not a question.

  She fidgeted with her belt. “I was waiting for you.”

  “I will answer all your questions,” he’d said. “Tonight. ”

  He strolled forward. “I was detained.”

  He did not apologize. Did not explain what had detained him. The fire crackled. The quiet hummed like the silence in her father’s house, thick with secrets and resentments.

  Lucy took a deep breath. She was a big girl now, she reminded herself. She could ask whatever she wanted. “You said we would talk,” she reminded him.

  He gestured toward the tray. “Over dinner.”

  She wanted food almost as much as she wanted answers. She surveyed the array of fancy silver dishes, the tall crystal pitcher full of water, the dusty bottle of wine, and offered him a smile. “It’ll be a treat to eat something I didn’t fix myself.”

  He gave her an unreadable look. “Let us hope you think so after you have eaten.”

  Puzzled, she lifted the lid of the scrolled and scalloped tureen. A cloud of steam escaped.

  Lucy blinked. Oatmeal?

  She set the silver cover down again. And . . . She uncovered another dish. Apples. A whole fish, gutted and grilled, and a dozen orange mussels gaping from their shells.

  “You will want wine,” Conn murmured, raising the bottle.

  She was afraid the combination of the firelight, the alcohol, and the man would go to her head. She perched cautiously on one of the thrones. “Water’s fine, thanks.”

  Conn’s lips curved as he handed her a glass. “The wine will compensate for the meal.”

  She sipped. The wine went down like liquid sunshine. “It’s good.”

  “I am glad you approve.” Conn transferred fish to a plate. The smell of grilled seafood teased her appetite. Her mouth watered. “The room is to your liking?”

  Her sense of unreality grew. She wasn’t used to making civilized conversation over a glass of wine in front of the fire. At home, she ate alone, with the television on for company. When she’d dated in college, her boyfriend usually spent the evenings with his video games before joining her in bed.

  She swallowed. Not that this was a date. Her gaze slid to the giant bed, the deep blue curtains falling from its carved canopy, the sealskin draped at its foot, and jerked away.

  “It’s very beautiful.”

  “You are warm enough?”

  She felt lapped by warmth—the food, the flames, the interest in his eyes.

  Steady, Lucy.

  “Sure. Well, the floor’s a little cold, but—”

  “I will bring you a rug.”

  What was he going to do? Hijack another yacht? “That’s not necessary. I—”

  “Lucy.” Her name, softly
spoken in his deep voice, brought her gaze to his strong, pale face, his silvery eyes. Inside her thick socks, her toes curled. “This castle is full of treasures lost and found under the sea. Over the centuries, I have had plenty of time to indulge my tastes. My senses. Let me indulge yours.”

  Oh, boy. She was tempted by more than the rug. She broke eye contact, poking at her fish with a fork.

  “This is good,” she said after a few bites.

  Conn leaned back in his chair, watching her over his wineglass. “Griff will be relieved to hear it.”

  Lucy pictured the big, gruff castle warden. “He cooks?”

  Conn looked amused. “Among his other duties. He has not had anyone to cook for—or to cook for him—in some time.”

  Lucy ate oatmeal while she pieced together scraps of information. Who else ate the warden’s cooking? “Miss March,” she guessed.

  Conn’s brows rose. “You know of her.”

  “The boys told me.” The oatmeal was thick and saltier than she was used to. She washed it down with more wine. “She was their teacher.”

  “Yes.” He selected a small, dark apple from a bowl and began to peel it.

  “They said she died. Fifty years ago. But they are—”

  “Older than they appear,” Conn finished for her.

  “But . . .” Confused, she watched as the peel fell in a thin red ribbon.

  “I did tell you we do not age as humans do,” he reminded her gently.

  Part of her mind had accepted the teens were selkie—like her mother, like Dylan, like Margred—without really recognizing what that meant. “But . . . they’re kids. Teenagers. Dylan grew up.”

  But not old, she realized. Her breath caught. Dylan looked younger than Caleb, even though he was older by three years.

  Conn quartered the apple and put a piece on her plate. “Dylan spent the first thirteen years of his life among humans. And much of the time since then on an island your mother bequeathed to him.”

  Dylan had an island? She took the apple. “What difference does that make?”

  “We do not age in the sea,” Conn explained. “Or here in Caer Subai. Only when we live as humans, away from Sanctuary and in human form.”