Immortal Sea

by Virginia Kantra

  “I thought we were here to talk about Zachary.”

  “We will,” he promised. “In the boat.”

  She climbed slowly to her feet. “This really isn’t necessary.”

  “Yes, it is.” His eyes glinted. “Otherwise, I cannot be sure you will not run away.”

  She laughed. Putting her hand in his, she let him lead her to the water’s edge, leaving solid ground and her scruples behind.

  The sea was the color of mossy slate, flashing with sparks like fool’s gold. Pale green bladders of seaweed floated just beyond the reach of the oars.

  Liz trailed her fingertips in the cool, dark water, enjoying the surge against her hand, the tingle up her arm.

  Tiny, sensory details impressed themselves on her consciousness. The rush of water and the rattle of the oarlocks. The shape of Morgan’s hands and the turn of his head. The faint gold glitter of beard by the edge of his jaw where he’d missed a spot shaving.

  He rowed with a fluid, easy strength that sent warmth curling through her midsection. It occurred to her, idly, that she’d never seen him sweat. Not that it mattered. It was remarkably pleasant to be with him like this, to be gliding without effort or destination over the sunlit water while he did all the work. A passenger instead of the captain, enjoying the ride.

  She flushed almost guiltily. Not that that arrangement would suit her in her everyday, real life.

  She pulled her hand from the water. “So, about Zack. I take it he was rude to you last night.”

  Morgan stroked the oars. “We exchanged . . . words,” he acknowledged in that precise way he had, as if English were his second language.

  “I know he can be difficult.” She bit her lip. “He was very close to Ben.”

  “So you have said.”

  “It’s hard for him to accept another man in his place.”

  Morgan’s eyes glinted. “To accept me.”

  “I . . . Yes.”

  “I am not a substitute for your dead husband, Elizabeth.”

  She flushed. Ben was never so blunt. “I never said you were.”

  “Only that you wanted me to be.”

  That gleam must be mockery. It could not be pain. But in her rush to get rid of Morgan last night, she had been rude, too. She owed him. If not an apology, then an explanation.

  “I miss the closeness I shared with Ben,” she admitted carefully. “When you’re married to someone for fourteen years, when you raise two children together, you develop a certain familiarity. Intimacy. Trust. But I chose to be with you last night. I wanted . . .” She sucked in her breath. “I want you. I’m just saying it’s an adjustment.”

  “For all of you.” His tone was dry.

  “The past few years, there’s only been the three of us. Under the circumstances, is it any wonder we’re a little—”

  The oars checked. “Possessive?”

  She firmed her mouth. “Protective.”

  He dipped the paddles back into the water. “Zachary is almost a man. It is natural for him to want to protect you.”

  “And I’m his mother. I need to protect him.”

  He turned his head, his gaze colliding with hers. “You cannot. He is different, Elizabeth. More different than you can imagine.”

  The intensity in his voice alarmed her. “You mean, he’s growing up.”

  “Growing up. Changing.”

  What was he getting at?

  She searched his face, his eyes, for a clue, unease constricting her throat and roiling her stomach. She knew that feeling. Every mother in the world knew that feeling. “Are you talking about puberty?”

  “I am talking about the Change in Zachary.” He expelled a harsh breath, letting the oars trail in the water. “This would be easier if you still believed.”

  “Believed what?”

  “You have a story you tell in your churches.” He didn’t move, but she felt the coiled tension in him, the energy bunching under his skin. “About the Creation.”

  Her anxiety spiked. “Is this a religious thing? Is Zack involved in some kind of cult?”

  He shot her a look, flat and sharp as a scalpel.

  She held up both hands. “Sorry.” Though why she should apologize she had no idea. He was the one who had changed the subject. “Go on.”

  “In the time before time, the elements were formed from the void. And as each element took shape, its people were called into being—the children of earth, the children of the sea, the children of air, and the children of fire.”

  His voice was deep and lulling as the waves that lapped the boat. Liz folded her hands together, forcing herself to focus on his words.

  “Then the Creator made humankind, breathing His immortal soul into mortal clay. Not a popular decision,” Morgan said, “with any but the angels. The children of fire—you would call them demons—rebelled, declaring war on the children of the air and humankind.”

  “I’m sure Emily would enjoy this story,” Liz said. “But what does it have to do with Zack?”

  “More than I imagined. More than you could dream. Forced to share their territories with this upstart creation, the children of earth and sea retreated, the fair folk to the mountains and wild places of earth and the merfolk to the depths of the sea. Generally, the elementals avoid contact with humankind.”

  “Okay,” Liz said cautiously. Where was he going with this?

  “But some encounters are inevitable,” Morgan said. “Some are sought. And such meetings always have consequences.”

  For no reason at all, her heart began to pound. “What kind of consequences?”

  “Art. War. Rumors. Legends.” His eyes, deep black with rims of gold, locked with hers. “Children.”

  Her mouth was dry, her mind blank. She stared at him, wetting her lips. “I don’t see . . .”

  “I am finfolk, Elizabeth,” Morgan said deliberately. “Merfolk. Our son Zachary is one of those children.”

  14

  LIZ LAUGHED, A SHORT, SHOCKED, DISBELIEVING sound. “You’re kidding.”

  You’re crazy.

  But Morgan appeared perfectly sane, his odd golden-colored eyes unwavering, his hard face composed. He didn’t look delusional.

  He also didn’t look like he was joking.

  A different fear seized her throat.

  “I am finfolk. Our son Zachary is one of those children.”

  “You mean Finnish,” she said.

  “I am a shape-shifter, Elizabeth.”

  No. Her body stiffened in rejection. Her mind reeled in shock. This was Morgan, a man she’d admitted into her home. Allowed alone with her children. Had sex with. Twice. And he was . . .

  Joking, she told herself firmly.

  Or insane.

  “This isn’t funny.” She wet her dry lips, glanced over her shoulder. The shore seemed suddenly very far away.

  His words on the beach came back to her. “Otherwise I cannot be sure you will not run away.”

  Dear God.

  She twisted on her seat, forcing herself to hold his gaze, to speak calmly. One of them had to be rational. “You look human to me.”

  He was human.

  How could he be anything else?

  “I am finfolk. A man on land,” he explained. “In the sea, we take the form of creatures of the sea.”

  Her stomach lurched. She was trapped on a boat with a madman. Should she try to humor him?

  But this was Morgan, her heart insisted, who had shown such insight with Zack, such patience with Emily. There must be some way to reach him, to reason with him.

  “Morgan, I’m a doctor. I’ve spent years studying and treating the human body. What you’re suggesting simply isn’t possible.”

  “Your medicine is based on human science. I am not human. I am an elemental.”

  She ignored his outrageous statement, seizing gratefully on the one word she trusted. “Exactly. Based on science. Reliable knowledge acquired through empirical evidence and critical thinking. Not speculation based on some coc
keyed interpretation of the Bible or, or fairy tales. You can’t believe . . . You can’t expect me to believe . . .”

  “I expect nothing. I had hoped . . .” Morgan shook his head. “No matter.”

  The oarlocks creaked. The paddles flashed as he raised them, dripping, from the water. Shrugging out of his jacket, he laid it on the seat beside him.

  Liz’s face felt stiff. Her lips were numb. “What are you doing?”

  “Providing you with the empirical evidence you require.” He tugged his shirt over his head. His shoulders were broad, his torso as pale and smoothly sculpted as marble in a museum. His silver medal gleamed on his chest. “We cannot discuss Zachary’s future until you believe.”

  Her heart stuttered. “Let’s not do anything”—crazy—“hasty now. I’m a doctor,” she repeated, holding on to her professional identity like a talisman against madness. “I know people you can talk to. People who can help you.”

  “Other doctors.”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “No.” The boat bobbed in the mild chop. “We are deep enough here.”

  Liz clutched the sides, apprehension coiling in her belly. “Deep enough for what?”

  He met her eyes. “For me to show you what I am. What our son is.”

  Even though she knew nothing was going to happen, a primitive chill chased across the back of her neck and down her spine. “You really don’t have to.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  She bit her lip, tempted to say she believed him just to keep him in the boat. “Just don’t drown trying to prove anything.”

  Sudden laughter lit his eyes. “I can promise you that.”

  He stood, one foot on either side of the rocking boat, balancing with an athlete’s ease and a dancer’s grace. His toes spread. Gripped.

  Liz caught her breath. Surely that wasn’t . . .

  In one smooth move, he dove over the side. The boat lurched and wallowed. Water sprayed. She closed her eyes against the splash.

  When she opened them again, Morgan had disappeared.

  Still gripping the sides, she peered into the cloudy water, relieved when she saw him gliding below, the pale, smooth curve of his shoulders and back flowing into his long, dark legs. His body appeared almost cut in two, black and white, light and shadow, his pale hair almost green in the half light. Watching him swim, it was easy to understand the old legends of half-human creatures under the sea.

  Even though his story was nonsense.

  She waited for him to surface.

  Time slowed.

  Waves rolled the boat.

  Morgan remained underwater. She watched his shadow slide under the boat and hung anxiously over the other side.

  Shouldn’t he come up for air?

  A great gray body erupted from the water, all smooth speed and flashing curves.

  She cried out and recoiled. Shark.

  Horror gripped her. Morgan was in the water. He would be attacked, eaten, killed.

  “Morgan? Morgan!” she called desperately, praying for a glimpse of him, searching for signs of life. Or blood.

  A plume of spray shot skyward. The creature arced and leaped. She glimpsed the long jaw, the curved fin, and her heart resumed beating.

  Not a shark. Her pulse drummed with fear and excitement. A dolphin.

  It reared from the water, almost dancing on its great fluke, its massive body gleaming against the sky. Its round eye was deep black with a glint of gold.

  Recognition squeezed her throat, quivered in the pit of her stomach.

  Her mind slammed shut. No.

  The dolphin plunged, a shining pewter arc disappearing in a burst of speed and foam. She stared, transfixed, as it shimmered, darkened, spread. The sea rippled and flashed.

  She blinked.

  A shadow, as wide as the boat was long, glided like a kite through the depths below. Her brain fumbled. A ray. Magic, alien, other, moving with primitive purpose and grace, breaking the planes of space like a bird.

  It circled the boat, once, twice, drifting close. One wing tip slid above the surface, furled in a lazy salute. She inhaled in shock and fear and amazement.

  Sunlight struck the water, striped its back in patterns of light and shadow, black and white. She stretched out her hand.

  “In the sea, we take the form of creatures of the sea.”

  Her breath shuddered out. Impossible. Her fingers curled into a fist.

  She watched the shadow grow bigger than the dolphin, bigger than the boat, pushing through the water. Blood rushed in Liz’s head. The shadow shot past, developing length, strength, bulk. The boat rocked. A black dorsal fin rose like the sail of a pirate ship cutting through the water, rose and fell, rose and . . .

  Orca.

  White gleamed against black, a patch of cheek, a flash of tail. She should have been terrified. She was terrified, her mouth dry, her pulse racing. And yet . . .

  Joy, power, freedom surged just beyond her reach, too huge to understand or encompass. What her mind refused, her heart welcomed in awe and wonder.

  “Morgan,” she whispered. Not a question, not a warning this time.

  The whale broke the bounds of the water, its motion like flying, like dance. White and black, dark and bright, magic as the night sky over Copenhagen sixteen summers ago.

  “I want an adventure,” she’d said to him then.

  She had never dreamed of anything like this. Moisture beaded her eyelashes. She tasted brine on her lips, like tears or spray. Saltwater, the source of life.

  The whale fell back into the sea in a flourish of foam.

  “Oh.” She cried out in loss. In longing.

  As if he heard her call, the sleek black shape surged and circled. She watched him speed toward the boat, deep and fast. She trembled, clutching the sides as the whale slid beneath the bow.

  The water boiled. Burst.

  And Morgan emerged from the sea on the other side.

  She met his eyes, golden eyes, animal eyes, with wide black centers and no expression. Her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest, everything she’d believed, everything she thought she understood, suddenly upended.

  His large hands gripped the sheer line. Between his fingers, something shimmered, sheer and shining as insect wings. She blinked as it faded away. His powerful shoulders flexed. In a rush of water, a blur of movement, he surged into the boat.

  Her mouth opened and closed silently. Like a fish, she thought, and shivered. Bad analogy.

  Morgan folded himself on the bench opposite hers, his big, square knees jutting into her space. Rivulets of water ran down his smooth skin. “You are all right.”

  A question? An observation? Or a command?

  “Fine. How . . .” She stared, riveted at his feet, ankles, arches, toes. His toes. Between his joints, a faint webbing stretched, iridescent as scales. Oh, God. She forced her gaze to his face. Cleared her throat. “How are you?”

  “I am well. Usually, I do not change forms so quickly. The danger of losing concentration is too great. But today I felt anchored. You anchored me.”

  She swallowed. “Is that good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m glad.”

  He studied her face. “You are a remarkable woman.”

  “And you are . . .” Impossible. Unthinkable. Unreal.

  “Remarkable, too.”

  She itched to touch him, ached for the reassurance of his solid flesh. His human flesh. She clasped her hands together tightly in her lap. “I thought you’d have a tail,” she blurted.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You said finfolk. Merfolk. And in Copenhagen, at the statue, you said . . .” She could no longer remember exactly what he’d said at the statue of the Little Mermaid all those years ago. “Anyway, I thought . . .” She gestured toward his legs, encased in wet black denim. Avoided looking at his feet.

  “Ah. No. One chooses to be one or the other, a man on land or a creature of the sea,” he explained patiently. “
To be both at the same time denotes a lack of control. I chose the forms most likely to be acceptable to you.”

  “Flipper,” she said, only a trace of bitterness in her tone.

  His eyes narrowed. “The muc marra and whaleyn were land mammals once. The closest to human of the creatures of the sea.”

  She turned his words over in her mind like a child with a shape puzzle, struggling to make things fit. “What?”

  “Eons ago, they gave up the land for the ocean. I thought it might help you to know that. To see their choice as right and natural.”

  Her focus sharpened. Her maternal instincts woke. She straightened on the narrow seat. “Zack isn’t a dolphin. He’s a fifteen-year-old boy.”

  “Already past his first Change.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  Everything in her rejected what he was saying. They were talking about her baby, her firstborn.

  But the pieces fit.

  “I saw it. I saw him last night. Elizabeth.” Compassion deepened his voice. “Where do you think he got the lobsters?”

  Oh, God.

  Her face felt stiff. “I thought he was having trouble adjusting to the change.”

  “He was.”

  She was too upset to appreciate his irony.

  In the distance, an early lobster boat headed home, the chug of its motor traveling over the water. Liz’s mind spun, picking and discarding memories, testing pieces of the puzzle.

  “The grief counselor said he was okay. ‘As well as can be expected.’ ” She bit her lip, the small pain a distraction from the ache at her heart. “But about six months after Ben died, Zack changed. His hair color, his hygiene, his clothes.”

  Those damn boots, she thought. He never went barefoot anymore. Even in the house, even in the summer, he wore socks.

  Morgan nodded. “The Change comes on at adolescence. He would try to control it. Failing that, to hide.”

  Liz swallowed painfully. “He started spending all his time in his room. I thought—he’s a teenager. But then his grades dropped. He didn’t want to see his friends.”

  “He could not confide in them.”

  “He could have come to me.” The hurt burst out of her. “I’m his mother. I’ve always told him he could come to me about anything.”