Wickedly Wonderful

by Deborah Blake

  Marcus stood up abruptly, his large shadow blocking out the sun. “Not really,” he said shortly. “We don’t get along.”

  Beka opened her mouth to say something, but he stalked off toward the port side and didn’t say another word to her until the Wily Serpent glided into the harbor as smoothly as its name.

  THREE

  MARCUS LEFT HIS father and the guys unloading the few fish they’d managed to salvage and stowed Beka and her surfboard into his battered ancient Jeep. During the trip back into shore, Beka’s hair had dried to reveal its true color, a golden yellow the color of sunshine. In rippled down her back like silk, smelling faintly of summer memories and shining in the bright morning light. For some reason, it kept catching at his vision out of the corner of one eye, distracting him.

  There was something generally sunshiny about her, in fact. She seemed to radiate a kind of cheerful glow that both attracted and annoyed him. He couldn’t pin down exactly why that was, which also attracted and annoyed him. Thank goodness he’d be rid of her soon. His life was complicated enough. And he was kind of used to the gray that colored everything in his world since he’d gotten home, as though he’d been wrapped in slightly dingy cotton wool.

  He parked in a spot off Highway One, with the ocean on one side and a steep bluff on the other. There were no houses in sight, but this was where she’d instructed him to bring her. What the hell was the woman playing at now?

  “I thought you said you lived near here,” he said, not trying to hide his scowl.

  Beka nodded, sliding out of the Jeep and grabbing her board. She gestured to the bluff. “I live up there, at least for the moment.” She cast a wicked grin in his direction. “You can wait down here for me if you want.”

  “Not a chance.” He looked at the nearly vertical path that cut into the sandy incline. “You carry your surfboard up and down that thing?”

  “Just about every day,” she said, tucking it under one arm effortlessly and heading toward a path. Her wet suit hung around her hips, revealing a simple white one-piece suit and lots of toned, tanned girl. He tried not to watch her perfect butt as he followed her up the hill.

  Marcus stopped at the top of the bluff to get the lay of the land. At first glance, there was nothing much there—a few windblown trees, a patch of ragged land more weeds than grass, and . . .

  “Is that a school bus?” he asked. It had the right shape, but the entire thing was painted with a mural of an underwater seascape of blues shading into aqua and greens, complete with colorful fish, playful seals and dolphins, and a scantily clad mermaid wearing an enchanting smile. He walked around to look at the other side, bemused, and found a sinuous sea serpent with crimson, orange, and yellow scales curling in and around the windows. Whoever had done the painting was wasted on buses; the entire effect was so realistic, he felt like he could swim right into the world in front of him. A tiny shiver ran down his spine.

  “That’s my home; at least, its current incarnation,” Beka said with another one of her sideways smiles. “A little flashy, I know, but it looked that way when I inherited it from my foster mother.” An eye roll accompanied the statement. “Some people got way too attached to the sixties.”

  Marcus shook his head. Great. A flake from a long line of flakes. It figured. He was much more impressed by the improbably well-preserved Karmann Ghia with a surfboard rack on top, parked alongside a shiny black Vespa motorcycle. Nice toys for a crazy surfer girl. Maybe she has a rich father. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about taking her food money to pay for this morning’s mess.

  “I’ll go get you the money,” Beka said, echoing his thought as she headed toward the door to the bus. Marcus followed her in, more out of curiosity than distrust.

  His eyes widened as he hit the top of the stairs and looked down the length of the converted school bus. Unlike the fanciful outside, the inside was as tidy as any barracks, although considerably more attractive.

  Pale wood paneled all the surfaces—floor, walls, and ceilings—giving it the feel of a shipboard cabin. The many windows along the side allowed in plenty of light, lending an airy ambiance to a space that might otherwise have felt claustrophobic. There was a tiny bathroom, an efficient galley, and a living area that included a rag rug and a futon that probably doubled as a bed.

  Well-crafted maple bookshelves ran along the walls, interspersed with cabinets and cupboards that kept everything not in use neatly stowed away. A cast iron stove between the living area and the kitchen stood cold and unused at the moment, thrusting its chimney through the roof of the bus.

  The few decorations he could see all continued the nautical theme: strands of shells hung like wind chimes, a decorative driftwood sculpture, blown glass globes, and the kinds of odds and ends you might find beachcombing. The futon cover was some soft woven material in shades of blue and green that reminded him of the ocean.

  The only jarring note was a collection of knives and a few swords that ran along the top of the walls above the windows; some of them looked brand-new, and others as if they might have been salvaged from the wrecks of ancient ships, but all of them appeared to be sharp and ready for use. Maybe she was expecting to be boarded by pirates.

  “Nice place,” he said, not commenting on the cutlery. “It’s not what I expected.”

  Beka snorted, wrinkling her straight nose and revealing a couple of adorable freckles he hadn’t noticed before. “You were expecting a lot of tie-dyed throw pillows, billowing incense, and some pot plants, maybe?”

  Actually, he had been. The reality was a lot more cheerful and appealing than he’d anticipated (sharp-edged weapons aside), and he couldn’t quite make it mesh with the mental image he’d formed of the girl so far. So which one of them was misleading?

  “Was the interior like this when you inherited it too?” he asked. Maybe the foster mother she’d mentioned had been the tidy one. Although the outside of the bus screamed hippie, and he’d never met a tidy hippie. He loved California, but the state had more flakes than a bowl of Raisin Bran.

  Beka shook her head. “No way. We’ve been changing things around ever since my foster mother moved out about two years ago. It used to be a lot more cluttered.” A dimple flashed as she grinned. “And there were, in fact, tie-dyed pillows.”

  We. Oh. So she didn’t live alone. Marcus wasn’t sure why that fact hit him so hard, especially since he didn’t intend to ever see her again after today.

  Of course someone that gorgeous had a boyfriend. Maybe even a husband, although a glance down at her slim left hand didn’t reveal a ring. The only jewelry she wore was a tiny gold dragon necklace and matching earrings; odd accessories for a surfer, but clearly sturdy, since they’d survived her tangle with his father’s nets.

  What the hell. “We?” he asked, not really wanting the explanation.

  She laughed, a sound like bells. “Oh, sorry, I haven’t introduced you.” She gave a sharp whistle. “Hey, Chewie, come say hi!”

  For a moment, Marcus was baffled; it wasn’t as though there was any place for someone to hide in the open space of the bus. Then a large shape lumbered up from behind the futon and shambled over to sit in front of Beka like a gigantic walking mountain of black hair and gleaming teeth.

  “Jesus!” Marcus said, taking an involuntary step backward. The thing had to weigh at least two hundred pounds, maybe more, and its head was almost as high as his waist, even sitting down. “What is that?”

  Beka tutted, leaning down to pat the monster on its furry head. “This is Chewie. He lives with me. Be nice, now.”

  Marcus couldn’t tell if she was talking to him or to the dog, but the creature put out one massive paw to shake. Blinking a couple of times, Marcus took it, mindful of the tough claws.

  “Er, hello, Chewie,” he said politely.

  “Woof,” the dog said back.

  “Chewie is a Newfoundland,” Beka explained. “They’re great water dogs. They swim better than we do, and even have webbed feet. They’re
often used for water rescue, and the breed started out as working dogs for fishermen.”

  “Uh-huh.” Marcus tried to imagine what his father would say if Marcus brought him a huge black dog to help out on the boat, and failed miserably. Instead, he commented on the dog’s unusual name. “Chewie—I guess you named him for Chewbacca in Star Wars. I can see why; they’re both gigantic and furry.”

  Beka giggled. “I never thought of that. Actually, Chewie is short for Chudo-Yudo. Also, he chews on stuff a lot, so it seemed fitting.”

  “Chudo what?” Marcus said. The dog made a snuffling sound that might have been canine laughter.

  “Chudo-Yudo,” Beka repeated. “He’s a character out of Russian fairy tales, the dragon that guards the Water of Life and Death. You never heard of him?”

  Marcus shook his head. “My father used to tell the occasional Irish folk tale when I was a kid, but I’m not familiar with Russian ones at all. Sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t be,” she said cheerfully. “Most of them were pretty gory, and they hardly ever had happy endings.”

  “Right.” Marcus looked at the dog, who gazed alertly back with big brown eyes, as if trying to figure out if the former Marine was edible or not. “So, you named him after a mythical dragon from a depressing Russian story. Does anyone get eaten in that story, just out of curiosity?”

  Chewie sank down onto the floor with a put-upon sigh, and Beka shook her head at Marcus. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course people got eaten. But don’t worry; Chewie hasn’t taken a bite out of anyone in years. He’s very mellow for a dragon.” She patted the massive dark head fondly.

  “Don’t you mean he’s very mellow for a dog?” Marcus said with a chuckle. He had to admit, the animal seemed completely laid back. Maybe the dog was a hippie too.

  Beka looked startled for a second, then caught herself. “Oh, right. That’s what I meant.” The dog gave another snort, drooling a little on her foot in the process. “Could you turn around, please?”

  Marcus raised one eyebrow in question. “Excuse me?”

  She made a little spinning gesture with one finger. “Turn around. I’m going to get your money now, and I don’t want you to see where I hide my stash. You can just go outside if you’re afraid to turn your back on me.”

  Right. Big, bad Marine is afraid to turn his back on the skinny blond surfer chick. Not likely. Even when the chick in question had a whole lot of sharp pointy objects on her walls and a ginormous hound from hell. He turned his back on her and crossed his arms. “So, do you actually have a job, then?” he asked, as she padded on bare feet across the floor toward the cupboards in the rear. He could feel the dog’s hot breath on his knees like the wind out of the desert.

  Muttered words and an odd series of clicks floated up from the end of the bus. Weird. She must have some kind of safe. Somehow she didn’t seem like the type. Hell, the door to the bus hadn’t even been locked when they’d gotten here.

  “I make handcrafted jewelry and take it to Renaissance fairs and farmer’s markets and places like that,” she said, suddenly right behind him again.

  Marcus tried not to jump. How on earth did she move like that? The elusive scent of fresh strawberries teased his nostrils again, oddly titillating. It didn’t smell like the too-fruity fake smell of some overly perfumed shampoo—more like the first lush strawberry of the season, warm from the sun and filled with impossible sweetness. Everything about this woman confused him, and he hated to be confused. He spun around, hand out for a wad of cash, and gazed in amazement as she dropped a half a dozen gold coins into his outstretched palm.

  “And I do some diving and salvage work on the side,” she added. “These came off a wreck in the Gulf of Mexico. I’m not sure what they’re worth, but they ought to more than cover the cost of mending that tiny hole in your nets, as well as a few lost fish.” She tossed long, silky strands of golden hair over her shoulder, her expression wary and defensive.

  Marcus realized that she was waiting for him to argue with her again, or say something insulting about someone who makes a living selling crap—that is, crafts—at fairs, and treasure hunting. He’d been about to do just that, truth be told, but he closed his mouth with a snap.

  Behind her cheery disposition and irritating in-your-face attitude, he suspected there lurked someone who was used to being criticized. Stormy depths hid behind those bright blue eyes. He’d had young guys in his unit like that; sometimes half the bluster was just a defense against being told they were lacking in some way. And hell, at least she’d paid him for the trouble she’d put them through. The coins she’d given him would more than make up for the day’s wasted trip. Assuming they were real. Although looking at the decorations on the walls, he didn’t doubt her story of being a diver, even if he thought half of everything else she’d told him was a lie.

  No point in hanging around any longer, no matter how nice the scenery was (and he didn’t mean the inside of the bus either). There was no place in his life right now for women, especially not gorgeous, eccentric ones whose worlds were so far from the one he inhabited, they might as well be on two different planets. He had a responsibility to his da, no matter how much he might dislike the old man. And as soon as he’d fulfilled that obligation, he’d be long gone. If he never saw another fish, or another ditzy California environmentalist, it would be just fine with him.

  He closed his fingers over the coins and nodded brusquely. “Thanks. And do us both a favor and stay away from my father’s boat. I’ve got enough to deal with without having to worry about you crazy Greenpeace people. We’re just honest fishermen trying to make an honest living. I suggest you do the same.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked out the door, almost running to get away from the feeling that he didn’t truly want to leave at all.

  * * *

  “WELL. THAT WAS rude,” Beka said. That didn’t stop her from crossing to the window to watch him walk away. No harm in looking. And it wasn’t as though she was likely to have the chance again. Besides, just because she was a powerful witch didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a nice butt when she saw one.

  “Man’s clearly got issues,” Chudo-Yudo said, padding over to stand next to her and giving her leg an affectionate nudge that almost knocked her over. “But he’s kinda cute.”

  Beka rolled her eyes. “What the hell do you know about cute? You’re a dragon.” She resolutely tore her gaze away from the sight and went to flop down on the futon instead.

  “I know that you hardly ever pay attention to men, even when they treat you a lot better than that guy did,” Chudo-Yudo said, opening the mini-fridge with his teeth to fetch out his latest bone. “And I also know that you hardly took your eyes off that one the whole time he was here. Hence—cute.” He crunched on the bone loudly.

  Beka would have argued, but what would be the point? It was true. There was something about the man that pulled at her core . . . despite the fact that he was cranky, unpleasant, and couldn’t stand anything about her. Thank goodness she was never going to see him again.

  Chudo-Yudo lifted up his head and a second later, a knock on the door made her heart skip a beat. But something told her it wasn’t a stick-up-his-butt fisherman, coming back to borrow a cup of sugar.

  In fact, when she opened the door, her visitor was revealed to be a slim, dark-haired man clad only in a pair of shorts. He dripped wetly on her doorstep, smelling faintly of salt and sea and mystery. When Beka came down to meet him, he bowed low in respect, his pale form bent almost to the ground. A ragged piece of seaweed was caught behind one ear like a ribbon, tangled in his ebony curls.

  “Baba Yaga,” he said, his tone formal as he handed her a roll of something that wasn’t quite parchment, but still looked ancient and weighty, for all that it, too, dripped salt water on the ground beneath. “I bring you greetings and salutations from the Queen of the Merpeople and the King of the Selkies. They hope that you will meet them this e’en at tide’s turn, down upon yon beach.” He gestured
gracefully toward the ocean that waited just across the highway, its heartbeat as dependable as the waxing and waning of the moon.

  Damn, Beka thought. So much for staying out of trouble.

  “I see,” she said to the messenger, although clearly she didn’t. “Please tell them that I will be there.”

  She’d spent the last two years avoiding anything that would call for her to draw on her powers as Baba for anything more urgent than averting the occasional tidal wave or quieting an earthquake, so she could be sure of not screwing up. Something told her she’d finally run out of time.

  FOUR

  A LOW MOON hung over the deserted beach, casting eerie shadows over windswept sand. A few days past full, its pallid globe danced in and out of scudding clouds, playing at hide-and-seek with a group of friendly stars. A little way offshore, a whale breached, sending a spume of water into the sky to add to the fun.

  The night air held a tiny bite of cold as it crept in off the water, and elusive scraps of fog wandered to and fro as if looking for the party. At her feet, a crab edged sideways toward a safer section of sand. Beka wished she could do the same.

  The moon hid its face for one long moment, and when it returned, a half a dozen figures had materialized out of the frothing surf. They walked out of the sea as if they strolled out of another world, one of mystery and magic and strange enchanting beauty. Which was more or less the truth of the matter, as it happened.

  The two in front had the kind of presence that caught the eye without intending to; an upright stance, a high-held head, a regal stare that said, Look, these ones are important. Special. Do not presume to bother them.

  It wasn’t anything they did or said, simply who they were. The guards who walked behind each of them were nothing; a habit, perhaps, a display of power, or merely the caution of the long-lived. But the two in front . . . it was just as well that the beach was empty at this late hour, because no one seeing them could have mistaken them for anything less than what they were: royalty out of legend, risen up upon a shore not their own.