Forgotten Sea Page 5

  Roses rioted everywhere, cascading pinks and bold reds, bright yellows and starry whites gleaming like constellations against the thick, dark foliage.

  Her hands clenched in her lap. Not everything on the island was barren.

  “You are up early.” A deep voice disturbed her reverie.

  She turned her head.

  A man stood in the shadow of the castle wall, watching her with eyes the color of rain. Tall, broad, and handsome, his hair blue-black like a mussel shell. Conn ap Llyr, prince of the merfolk, lord of the sea. Even now, the sight of him had the power to steal her breath and stir her heart.

  “Or couldn’t you sleep?” he asked.

  She turned away, unwilling to burden him with her growing sense of failure. “I had a dream.”

  His deerhound, Madagh, left his side to thrust a cold nose against her colder fingers. She stroked the dog’s gray, bearded muzzle. It was easy to take comfort from the dog.

  “You could have woken me.” Conn’s voice was too measured for reproach.

  She stiffened anyway. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  In recent months—since the Thing She Didn’t Think About had happened—he had withdrawn further and further into his duties, burying his own grief in the demands of rulership.

  Once he would have taken her in his arms, this selkie male who did not touch except as a prelude to sex or a fight.

  Now he stood cool and immovable as a statue, separated by his natural reserve and her unspoken resentment.

  “You are my consort.” His tone was patient, controlled.

  “My mate. What concerns you concerns me. Tell me.”

  She gripped her hands together in her lap. “I dreamed I heard a child crying.”

  Something moved in his eyes, like water surging under the ice. “Lucy . . .”

  “Not a baby,” she said hastily. “A boy. A lost boy.”

  The wind sighed through the garden, releasing the scent of the roses. The bush he had given her threw petals like drops of blood upon the grass.

  “You are upset,” Conn said carefully. “Such dreams are natural.”

  “It’s not that,” she said impatiently. She couldn’t stand to think about that. She could not bear any more of his well-meant reassurances. “This boy was lost, Conn. Like Iestyn.”

  “Iestyn is not a boy any longer. He’s been gone for seven years. They all are gone.”

  “I feel responsible.”

  Conn’s face set in familiar, formidable lines. “It was my decision to send them away. My failure to keep them safe.”

  “You sent them away because of me. Because I didn’t stay and protect Sanctuary.”

  “You saved your brothers and their wives and children.

  You made the better choice for the future of our people.”

  She was grasping desperately at straws. At hope. At control. “But suppose they’re still out there somewhere? Iestyn and the others.”

  “They would have found their way home by now.”

  “Unless they can’t. Maybe my dream was a . . . a message.

  A sending.”

  Conn was silent.

  “Is it possible you are focusing on one loss to the exclusion of another?” he asked at last.

  “You think I’m making things up,” she said bitterly.

  “Lucy.” His voice was no less urgent for being gentle.

  “You are still the targair inghean.”

  Her heart burned. Her throat ached. Locked in her grief, she did not, could not, answer.

  He waited long moments while the fountain played and the wind mourned through the battlements.

  And then he went away.

  Lucy sat with her hands in her lap, staring sightlessly at the sparkling water. She was the targair inghean, the promised daughter of the children of the sea. Long ago, before she had loved him, before he loved her, Conn had stolen her from her human home so she would bear his children.

  “I need you,” he had told her then. “Your children. Ours. Your blood and my seed to save my people.”

  She put her head down among the roses and wept.

  H e was out there somewhere. She could feel him, just like this morning.

  Lara skimmed along the tree-lined walk, her flat shoes crunching the pea gravel. She imagined Justin blundering in the dark, dazed and bleeding, hurt and resentful, a danger to himself . . . or to others.

  She needed to find him. For his sake. For hers.

  She had to tell somebody. Tell Simon.

  Her stomach churned. The thought of facing the governors, of Zayin’s scorn and Simon’s disappointment, made her sick inside.

  But she had no choice. A trickle of sweat rolled down her spine. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  The distinctive pitched roof line of the headmaster’s residence poked over the trees—six chimneys and a weathervane shaped like an eagle.

  Simon Axton lived alone in the original Colonial farmhouse, set apart from the other school buildings behind the main hall. Lara had been invited inside exactly eight times. To the sunroom to take tea with her cohort on graduation day. To the book-lined library for cocktails with the schoolmasters and other proctors over the holidays.

  Once or twice to bring Simon a file he’d left at the office.

  Lara approached the front porch, her steps slowing, anticipation burning a hole in her gut. Too late, she realized she should have called. But what would she say?

  What could she say? She was supposed to be in her room.

  Simon’s cool dismissal pounded in her head. “If you’re quite satisfied, I believe we’re done here. ”

  The thought of his displeasure dried her mouth. She stared up at the darkened windows, listening to the whisperings and rustlings and cracklings of the overgrown garden. A soft thump sounded from the back of the house, some small, nocturnal animal hunting in the night.

  Her heart thudded.

  Suck it up, she ordered herself. Get it over with.

  Straightening her shoulders, she marched toward the steps.

  That noise again, like a prowling cat or a raccoon testing the garbage cans or . . .

  She caught her breath. Or like an escaped patient, skulking in the bushes.

  Goose bumps rose along her arms. She stood frozen, her mind racing, her breath whooshing in and out of her lungs.

  He couldn’t be . . .

  Here?

  Maybe. Why not? How far could he get, with a skull fracture and the heth around his throat?

  She thrust her hand into her skirt pocket, wrapping her fingers around the knife—his knife, Justin’s—and was instantly electrified as if she’d grabbed a live plug. Her nerves sizzled.

  Like a bug flying into a bug zapper.

  She strained her senses.

  There? Almost. Almost . . . There.

  A whisper of warmth, male, animal, alive. A swirl of wild energy, around the corner, behind the house. Intangible.

  Unmistakable.

  Justin was here, somewhere nearby.

  Clutching the knife like a divining rod, she plunged into the darkness at the side of the house, stepping over beds of hostas and lilies of the valley, creeping under the black and staring windows. It was like her Seeking—was it only this morning?—or the game she’d played as a child. Warm.

  Cold. Warmer. Hot.

  She shivered. A dangerous game, with high stakes and an unpredictable playmate.

  Warm, warmer . . .

  A thick oak raised its arms over the backyard, obscuring the star-strewn sky. She stepped into the mottled light, her gaze scanning the dappled ground, the silvered plants, the velvet shadows. Against the foundation, the door to the storm cellar yawned open, a gaping black hole.

  HOT.

  The knife burned in her pocket. The air left her lungs.

  There. Sprawled across the stone threshold, one arm reaching for the wooden door as if to shut it behind him.

 
His hair was bleached, his skin pale in the moonlight. The bandage on his forehead was dark with blood.

  Justin lifted his head and met her gaze, his eyes nearly black in the shadows, burning with intensity. “Help . . . me.”

  She inhaled through her teeth. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Like a fox, bloodied and desperate, run to earth under the farmer’s house.

  Incredibly, he smiled. Or was that a distortion of the moonlight? “No,” he whispered agreement.

  She took a cautious step forward, keeping her ankles out of reach. “You need to go back to the infirmary.”

  “Can’t . . . breathe.”

  “It’s the heth.”

  He stared at her dumbly.

  “Cutting off your air.” He must be very strong—or stubborn—to have overcome both Zayin’s binding and Miriam’s sleep spell.

  It was clear, however, that he’d reached the end of his rope.

  Literally. His breath wheezed alarmingly. His head sank back to the ground. His body was cut in two by the shadow of the cellar, his legs disappearing down the stairs.

  He turned his face to watch her, eyes open, unmoving, like a wounded animal.

  She bit her lip. There was no way she could undo the Master Guardian’s heth. She didn’t have the power. Or the nerve.

  But she couldn’t stand idly by and watch him choke. Not if she could help him.

  “Here.” She knelt in the long grass beside his head, feeling his thin breath warm and moist against her bare knee.

  Cautiously, she touched his throat, tested the leather thong.

  It didn’t feel tight. The bead, black and smooth as onyx, was almost invisible in the dark. She gave an experimental tug, and her fingers stung as if she’d grabbed a thistle in the garden. Ouch. She jerked her hand away.

  She drew a slow breath. Now what?

  In her mind, she could hear Simon’s calm, lecturing voice as he addressed the fundamental powers class.

  “Magic is a matter of discernment, will, and grace. Before you attempt to use your gift, you must understand what should be; what can be; what must be.”

  What should be . . .

  She was already on her knees. Ignoring the bead, she gripped the cord between two fingers and her thumb.

  Closing her eyes, she bowed her head and focused on the knot.

  Imagined it loosening, softening, sliding . . .

  She felt a faint vibration in her fingertips, a lurch in her stomach. Opening her eyes, she peered hopefully at Justin.

  His widened gaze met hers. His mouth opened soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. Like a man dying.

  Oh, skies. She had to do something.

  What can be . . .

  Air, she thought frantically. That was her element, wasn’t it?

  If she couldn’t break the heth’s power, she would at least give him air.

  She flung herself on him, rolled him to his back. With one hand, she tilted his head, pinched his nose. The other she slapped to his chest. His throat arched. His mouth gaped.

  Drawing a deep breath, she leaned forward and opened her mouth over his.

  His lips were warm, moist, firm. She blew her breath into him, poured herself into him. The world spun.

  In you. Me, in you. My breath, my life, in you.

  She was the air filling his mouth, dilating his throat, swelling his lungs. He tasted like salt and sweat and freedom, dark, rich, forbidden flavors.

  What must be . . .

  Inside her, something fluttered and erupted, a thousand beating wings fighting the sky. Roaring filled her head, a rush like wind or the sea. Power thrummed and thundered along her veins, welled and spilled from her eyes, her mouth, her hands. It lifted her up, she was rising, falling, flying . . .

  No, that was his chest, she realized, dazed.

  Justin’s chest, rising, his lungs expanding with air.

  His arms closed around her. She gasped and released him. They both shuddered.

  She pushed herself up, one hand on his hard, lean torso, one hand on the cold ground. Dizzy, she looked down at him. “Are you all right?”

  His eyes met hers, black as night with a thin edge of gold like the sickle moon. “What . . . was that?”

  She rocked back on her heels, pressing her lips together, holding the taste of him inside. What was she doing? What had she done?

  “First aid,” she said.

  Wicked laughter lit his eyes.

  It was more than first aid, and they both knew it.

  More than a kiss. Did he realize?

  She was no magic handler. All nephilim were taught what they were and what they once could do. Most learned to shield and make a little light, to bend air and set wards. But most gifts remained latent. This went beyond anything Lara had done—or felt—before.

  She rubbed her arms, holding herself together. “We have to get you back.”

  The animation drained from his face. He was still very pale, she noted with a thrum of anxiety. “Can’t.”

  She felt another flutter. Panic, this time. “I can’t hide an attempted escape. But if I return you—if you return of your own volition—the governors will be more lenient on us both.”

  “Can’t . . .” Another slow, rasping breath. “Walk.”

  “Oh.”

  His eyes drifted shut again as if the effort of speaking had exhausted his strength. His lashes looked very long and dark against the sharp white angles of his face.

  Her angel’s breath had revived him. But for how long?

  Lara hugged her elbows as she considered her options.

  She couldn’t move him. She couldn’t walk away.

  She glanced up at the dark windows of the house, fighting the hollow in the pit of her stomach, knowing what she had to do.

  Her hand trailed from his chest. She climbed to her feet.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  His lean hand curled, warm and possessive, around her ankle. “Don’t leave.”

  Her heart lurched. “I’ll be right back,” she repeated and ran.

  *

  Lara peered through the leaded glass insets at the side of the door. Even through the swirled and textured glass, she could see the hall was empty. The doorbell’s echo faded away.

  Simon didn’t come.

  Her heart hammered. Why didn’t he come?

  She tried knocking and heard—finally!—the headmaster’s deliberate tread descending the stairs. The foyer light switched on, making the colors in the window bloom.

  Simon opened the door. Just for a moment, something flashed in his eyes. She felt hot and awkward, as if she’d been caught running in the hall. Or kissing a bleeding stranger in his back garden . . .

  She fought the temptation to smooth her skirt, to check her buttons. Stupid. Simon had more important things to worry about than what she did or with whom. And so did she.

  She must have roused him from bed. He was still wearing the long, loose pants and shirt most nephilim favored for training and sleeping. The wide-sleeved shirt hung open over his naked chest. His long, narrow feet were bare.

  “Lara. This is unexpected.” His usually smooth voice was roughened with sleep.

  She averted her gaze, uncomfortable with this unfamiliar, intimate view of the headmaster. She really should have called first. “Yeah. Um, sorry. I need your help.”

  “What is it? What can I do for you?”

  “Me?” Surprise made her squeak. “Nothing. I . . . It’s Justin.”

  Simon went very still. “Justin.”

  “Out back. Please. Hurry.”

  “Lara . . .”

  “He must have . . .” Escaped was too strong a word.

  “Walked out. I found him trying to get into your storm cellar.”

  Did she imagine it, or did some of the tension leave Simon’s shoulders? “And you came to tellme.”

  She nodded.

  “Very good
.”

  His approval made her flush.

  “He is there now?” Simon asked, already moving, gliding down the steps, silent as the air.

  She hurried after him. “Yes, he can’t walk, he can barely talk . . .”

  “He spoke to you?”

  The sudden sharpness of his tone made her blink. “Well, not really. The heth . . . And his head . . .”

  Simon rounded the corner of the house and stopped.

  Lara watched him take in the scene with one glance, the gaping cellar door, Justin’s body on the stairs. His eyes were still closed, his chest moving. Thank God. The residue of magic drifted over the ground like the smell of gunpowder on the Fourth of July.

  Lara rubbed her arms, feeling the charge like static against her skin.

  “You may go,” Simon said. “I will deal with this.”

  At the sound of his voice, Justin turned his head. His gaze slipped past Simon and stabbed her, his eyes dark with accusation.

  For no reason at all, she began to tremble.

  “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Everything’s going to be all right now.”

  “Stay there,” Simon ordered. “He may be dangerous.”

  “He’s not, he . . .”

  Simon stooped, his back to her. She felt a change like a drop in temperature or a shift in the atmosphere, and Justin slumped.

  Simon cradled his head before it hit the ground.

  Her heart rolled over in her chest. “What did you do?”

  she whispered.

  Simon glanced over his shoulder, brows raised.

  Oh, right, like she wouldn’t recognize his magic whammy.

  But maybe she wouldn’t have a day ago. Or even an hour ago. Maybe the spell she had worked on Justin had made her more sensitive. Or maybe it was his kiss . . .

  “I relieved his pain,” Simon said.

  “You knocked him out.”

  Simon shrugged. “He will be easier to move this way.”

  He was the headmaster. She trusted him. She did.

  She watched as he brought his cupped hands to his mouth and blew softly. Mage fire kindled in his palms, a globe of silver light, cool and unconsuming. He released it to float above his head, tethering the light with a word.