“Some would say I have no heart to break,” Lily muttered.
“Why would they say that?”
“Not important.”
Opal’s face crumbled. “You don’t trust me to keep my mouth shut. Which I can totally understand, given how I blabbed Nash’s history during lunch.”
“It’s not that.” Lily’s fingers rubbed an itchy scratch on her leg leftover from the run in the woods. She supposed this was what girlfriends did, exchanged secrets and confided in one another. Maybe Opal had done her a favor in revealing Nash’s painful past. At least now she knew the problem and could be mentally prepared when Nash brought up the news himself.
And it would be wonderful to have a real friend because Jet and Shelly were busy now with their own lives. She drew a deep breath. “Okay, you’ll probably hear this anyway if you meet people in town, but I don’t have a great reputation.”
“Why’s that?”
“I went through a bit of a wild stage years ago and no one will let me forget it. That’s a small town for you. You’re doomed to never live down your past. Although, in my defense, rumors of my promiscuity are greatly exaggerated.”
Opal patted her shoulder. “Poor Lily. Don’t worry—I won’t say anything to Nash.”
Lily shifted uncomfortably. Opal made her feel...beholden. Guilty. As if they shared something dirty. “Doesn’t matter. He’s bound to hear the talk, too.”
“Maybe not. He and his grandfather live pretty isolated. And Nash has been reclusive the past couple of years. He doesn’t get out much.” Opal winked. “So you see, probably nothing to worry about.”
Again, a prickly unease settled over Lily. She smiled uncertainly. “If you say so,” she agreed. Her family had grown up secluded from the townsfolk, making it easier to keep their shape-shifting abilities a secret.
Secrecy was a habit she’d have to let slip if she wanted a girlfriend.
Chapter 5
Sunset through the pines cast coral and mauve spears of light across land and sea. Nash had returned to the cabin on the evening ferry, bent on a mission. Now he trudged through mosquito-infested lowland, shotgun at his side. Diseased or not, the coyote was clever at eluding him. In spite of pain and fear, the will to live was strong in the animal. Nash respected that.
The wind shifted, hot air rippling across his sweaty skin. The fresh scent of pine needles had an underlying taint. Nash followed it, back on the coyote’s track. Another fifty yards ahead, the smell of sickness grew thicker and obliterated the pine odor.
Black energy seeped inward as he drew near. Most likely the unfortunate coyote had been ousted from his pack, a threat to the group’s survival. Cold fingers of loneliness fidgeted along his spine as he sensed the animal’s toxic miasma. Nash picked up a faint, rumbling groan. Not the growl of an aggressive animal, but the mewling of one suffering.
Nash emitted a calming message. Your time has come. Let’s end the pain.
An answering whine came from behind a dense clump of saw palmetto trees not a dozen yards to his right. The coyote emerged, trembling, its amber eyes dull and flat. Mottled gray fur encased an emaciated body. Telltale foam bubbled along its tapered muzzle. Rabies had rendered the animal unable to swallow its own saliva.
Nash ever so slowly raised the shotgun, not wanting to provoke the animal. I’m sorry. This will be quick, I promise you. His right index finger crooked onto the metal trigger.
The coyote leapt, snarling and baring sharp teeth, amber eyes alit in a last-shot bid to escape death. Fur, fear and fury hurled toward Nash and he pulled the trigger.
An explosive boom rang out. The reverberation from the shot was still echoing as the dead coyote’s body hit the ground with a thump. Nash closed his eyes and drank in the silence until peace washed through the woods.
It was done.
He took out the garbage bag and latex gloves he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans. To prevent spread of the rabies virus, it was necessary to bag the coyote and put it in a protected place until he could return in the morning with a shovel and bury the dead body.
Quickly, he attended to the last rites. You were brave. A fighter to the end. May you join a ghostly pack in happy hunting grounds. Satisfied with the work, he retraced his path. The air was a shade darker than when he’d first set out. At a fork on the dirt trail he hesitated. Better check on the old man. Grandfather had missed dinner and the thought of his eighty-two-year-old grandfather being unaccounted for left Nash uneasy. Instead of continuing home, Nash set off for the marsh. Sam often fished all day out there.
Sure enough, he found his grandfather sitting in a chair, fishing pole in hand. The tip of his cigar glowed in the gathering twilight. Nash walked up behind him.
Without turning around, Sam spoke. “Heard the shot. You get that coyote?”
“I did.” Nash settled on the ground close by after making sure he was clear of fire-ant mounds. Their sting was like being poked by flaming hypodermic needles. “Sorry I haven’t been to see you in a couple days.”
“You’re busy. Besides, I went years without seeing you. Two days is nothing.”
Guilt made him defensive. “You were always welcome to visit me. Why do you stay here all the time? There’s a big, wide world outside this backwoods.”
Sam stared ahead at the black water. “True. But there’s also a whole world here you’re missing.”
“Hardly. I’ve hiked every inch of this area over the years.”
“Ah, but you haven’t swam all over it.”
Nash gave him a sideways glance. “And if I did, what would it matter? I’ve swam in all the seven seas.”
The tip of Sam’s cigar glowed brighter as he took a draw.
“Should you really be smoking with your heart trouble?”
“I’m not forsaking my little pleasures. I’ve lived over eight decades, you know.”
“Yeah, but if you want to make another decade, you need to give up those things.” He pointed to the cigar with a jab of his finger.
Sam tipped his head back and exhaled a smoke ring within a smoke ring.
“When do you go back for another doctor’s visit? I want to go with you.” Guilt lashed him; months ago when Sam had undergone a triple bypass operation, Nash had been on an African safari assignment. His grandfather had recouped alone until he’d finagled an assignment nearby. Nash had sent a paid home health care assistant, but his grandfather had dismissed her before two weeks were up, claiming he could take care of himself.
“At least think about giving up frying everything in bacon grease,” Nash urged.
Sam didn’t respond and Nash frowned at the grey tinge that underlaid Sam’s olive skin. The fishing pole trembled slightly in his grandfather’s unsteady hand.
A rush of nostalgia overcame Nash. As a child, his grandfather’s cabin had been a haven of peace from his parents’ tumultuous marriage. He’d missed the summer visits after Mom had whisked him away to her home state of Massachusetts. His grandfather could have visited them, but he refused to leave the bayou. Nash doubted he’d ever been north of the Mason-Dixon line his entire life.
The pole jerked and Sam smiled, face crinkling. He detached a good-sized brim and placed it in a rolling ice chest with several others. “Fried fish dinner tonight.”
Nash shook his head. He’d suggest baking the fish but knew his grandfather wouldn’t go for the healthier option. “Ready to get home and eat? It’s getting dark.”
“I can see well enough, plus I have my flashlight.”
A knowing look passed between them. They could each sense their way in darkness. His grandfather had some of the same supernatural senses that he did, although not as strong. By agreement, they seldom spoke of it.
Sam closed the lid of the small cooler. “Let’s sit a spell afore we go. Have I ever told you th
e story—”
Nash almost groaned. Not another story.
“—of the Okwa Nahollo?”
“No,” he said, surprised. He thought he’d heard every Choctaw tale a thousand times, but this was new. “Does that translate to ‘pale water people’?”
“White people of the water,” Sam corrected. “Extremely white.”
An image of Lily’s soft-hued face flashed through him. He hated admitting it, but he’d missed her the past two days he’d stayed on the island.
“With skin the color of trout because they lived undersea,” his grandfather continued.
Talk about a tall fish tale. Nash refrained from grinning. “Like mermaids?”
Sam shook his head. “No. They aren’t half fish and half human. They have human form except their legs are almost twice as long as ours. Their fingers and toes are webbed and their eyes glow like some deep-sea fishes do.”
“Of course, so they can see better in dark water.”
Sam narrowed his eyes, as if suspicious Nash was amused. “Exactly.”
Nash wrapped his arms around his bent knees and stared out over the marsh. “Go on.”
“Whenever you find patches of light-colored water in the bayou, that is where they live. If you swim near them or fish near them, they’ll grab your ankles and pull you under.”
The theme from Jaws played in his mind. “So don’t worry about sharks. People should fear capture by mermaids.” Death by mermaid.
Not even a ghost of amusement lit Sam’s eyes. “Yes. Except, like I said, they aren’t exactly mermaids, although they must be closely related.”
“C’mon. I’m not a kid anymore. You don’t really expect me to believe that tale. Surely you don’t either, do you?”
“It’s passed down from our ancestors.” Sam’s eyes flashed and his spine stiffened. “Every word is true.”
Nash kept his face blank and his tone neutral. “I mean no disrespect.”
“Of course you do. You think I am a foolish old man.” Sam eased up out of the chair and stood, looking out to sea.
Nash reached up his hand and touched his grandfather’s knee. He might be a skeptic and occasionally amused at his grandfather’s ways, but he would never think him foolish. “Not foolish. Please sit.”
Sam stayed rooted, as if debating. Finally, he sat. “I’m an old man. I’ve kept in shape by walking these woods for years, but my time’s short. So while you’re here I need to explain more of your heritage.”
“I’m listening.” He felt chastened like a small child. “I respect my people and their ways. Nothing will ever change that.”
“I know it makes you uncomfortable when I speak of the spirit world. But it’s there. It’s real. Just as you are sensitive to nature and its creatures, my gift is seeing the spirits around people. They can be human, animal or plant spirits, sometimes all three.”
“Father said you chose my name because you saw a wolf spirit near me.”
Sam nodded. His serious, deeply lined face rearranged to an unexpected, wistful smile. “When you were born, I fasted three days and went on long walks, seeking guidance. The first time I held you in my arms I heard a wolf howl. I envisioned a pack of wolves celebrating your birth, tails wagging, the males wrestling one another in a show of affection.”
“So you named me Nashoba—Choctaw for wolf.” He’d heard this before, remembered Mom rolling her eyes at Dad’s insistence on naming their children with traditional names. “So how did you end up with a name like Sam?”
“My parents did it to honor a gentleman named Samuel who was good to them. He hired my father as a laborer and paid him a decent wage for the times. But my middle name is Chula.”
“Chula means fox,” Nash said, combing through his memory of their native language.
Sam fixed his gaze back to the water’s expanse with an absorbed look Nash remembered from childhood. He would stay in this same spot for hours in deep contemplation, the fishing pole loose in his hand like an afterthought.
“Do you think about grandmother out here?”
She’d died decades ago from a boating accident. The one memory of his grandmother was of her shucking corn in the kitchen. The room was cozy and warm, smelling of fried goodness, fresh vegetables and herbs. When he’d entered, her dark eyes sparkled in greeting. She’d dropped to a knee and held out her arms and he’d run into them. The safest, most loving, secure spot in the universe. And it was but a thirty-second memory.
“Yes. And all the others that have passed before and since.”
It was a shame he’d never remarried. Nash struggled for words to convey sympathy while not sounding like a condescending jerk. “I wish you would leave this place. At least for a few vacations. You should see new things, meet new people.”
“I can’t leave.”
More like don’t want to leave. Sam was old and stubborn as barnacles clinging to a ship hull. No changing him at this late date.
The silence stretched between them as the sun had completed its day’s journey and disappeared. All that remained was the water’s memory of it in coral-and-purple sheens that rippled in the Gulf breeze. Grandfather turned to him. “The spirits say it is time.”
“Time for what?” So that’s what he did alone out here—communed with spirits. He should have guessed.
“One last story.”
Alarm brushed the back of his neck like a nest of crawling spiders. He half rose. “Do you have chest pains? Should I call a doctor?”
“It’s not my time tonight. Although it draws near.”
“Don’t say that. There must be something the doctors can do.” A suspicion gurgled up. “Are you taking your medicine? You can’t depend only on the spirits and herbs for healing.”
“There’s more to tell you of the Okwa Nahollo,” Sam continued, ignoring Nash’s question. He fixed him with sharp, dark eyes. “You are a descendant.”
“Of the mermaids?” Nash scoffed. Really, Grandfather had gone too far this time.
Sam’s jaw clenched and his mouth set in a determined line. “It is in your blood.”
* * *
“I want purple or pink highlights. Something striking.” Opal fingered a lock of lavender in Lily’s hair. “Something deeper than this.”
No point mentioning the subtle pastels in her hair were entirely natural. Fortunately, Lily kept a rainbow of hair-dye colors stocked because so many requested some version of her unusual hair hues. The beauty shop, Mermaid’s Lair, was officially closed, but Lily did the odd job for customers who begged for her service. Plus, it was convenient for Jet and Shelly to come in for weekly hair-and-nail maintenance—important because both grew at three times the normal human rate.
Jet winked at Lily from behind the desk where she sat running the numbers for their various family businesses: a maritime and antiquities shop, aquatic therapy and the small income from the beauty shop that kept the rent and utilities paid.
“You made a grand total of fifty dollars in profit last quarter,” Jet said, frowning.
Lily laughed, expertly assembling mixing bowls and chemicals. “Ah, but it was double that amount if you included tips.”
“I’ll tip handsomely,” Opal promised, an earnest look on her face.
Probably thought she was broke. As if. Lily styled hair because she enjoyed it and was good at it. “This is on me.”
“Maybe you should reopen full-time,” Jet persisted. “It would give you something to do.”
Hell, no. She’d had enough of the town women’s snotty, superior behavior and the men ogling her breasts as she stood close by to trim their hair. Besides, shop hours would interfere with her painting.
“Don’t need to.” They were stinking rich.
“But you’re home alone. What do you do all day?”
; Lily shrugged. “Paint.”
“She’s really good,” Opal cut in. “I saw her sketchbook.”
“Sure, I know that.” Jet waved a hand around the room. “She did this, after all.”
Opal surveyed the varying shades of coral, rose and ivory on the walls. Lily had painted pearly tones that gave the effect of being enveloped in the shelter of a giant conch shell.
“Remarkable,” Opal said in a hushed tone.
Lily felt a tiny glow of satisfaction at the praise. She’d spent lots of time with Opal the past couple of days, enjoying the novelty of shopping with a girlfriend and showing her around the bayou.
“But I don’t see art as a career path.”
Jet’s acerbic observation squashed the flicker of warmth. Her sis was in a lousy mood today. Must be some hormonal pregnancy thing.
Lily absentmindedly brushed Opal’s red hair. She’d been thinking of entering the prestigious Garrison Hendricks art contest. All finalists would be invited to showcase their work at a premiere gallery in New York City. The chances of placing were slim, but the rewards could launch her fledgling dreams.
The click of Jet’s fingers on the adding machine resumed.
“How’s Nash’s work going?” Lily asked Opal casually.
“It’s been a challenge, but he enjoys it. Doesn’t he talk to you about it?”
“I haven’t talked to him in a couple days. Maybe I’ll run out there tomorrow.”
Opal winked. “Bet he’d love to see you. You two can pick up with the passionate kiss I interrupted at the picnic.”
The clicking stopped. “Passionate kiss? I thought you were seeing Gary Ludlow,” Jet said.
“I cut him loose last week.” Lily sharpened her scissors, ignoring Jet’s exasperated sigh.
“One day you’re going to run out of men to date around here,” her sister warned.
Lily placed chunks of Opal’s hair between her left index finger and thumb and made the first cut. She didn’t defend herself against Jet’s remark. It wasn’t that she deliberately set out to hurt anyone. When she saw it couldn’t work, she ended it quickly, figuring that was the kindest thing in the end.
Siren's Call (Dark Seas) Page 6
