Sea Fever Read online

  Their gazes locked.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Caleb said grimly.

  If he could find him.

  Caleb didn’t think his brother would hurt a woman. Not physically, at least. But the fate of one human female wasn’t likely to concern him too much either.

  Margred claimed Dylan was really here on some kind of fact-finding mission for the selkie prince.

  Fine. If there were demons on World’s End, Caleb hoped the merfolk were prepared to deal with them. Because in any selkie-demon skirmish, humans were bound to lose.

  Caleb couldn’t ignore the possibility that Dylan’s presence and Regina’s disappearance were connected somehow. But neither could he let speculation drive his investigation. People did shitty things to each other all the time. They might blame the devil, but it was mostly human nature.

  Caleb was damned if he knew why a demon would target a twenty-nine-year-old restaurant cook.

  Dylan could tell him.

  Too bad his brother was never around when Caleb needed him.

  * * *

  Dylan plunged into the wet, salty womb of the sea, felt the water stroke his thick fur pelt and surround him like a lover. Here he was alive in every strand and cell.

  Here he was free.

  He swam through the great green darkness, the cold salt tang. Through streamers of light and pennants of kelp, past colonies of steely black mussels and milky moon jellies. The beat of the surge was his pulse, the rush of the waves better than breath. He spiraled down, drifted up. No gravity. No responsibility.

  Regina’s words hooked him like a barb, ripping at his peace. “You try being responsible for somebody besides yourself sometime, and we’ll talk.”

  He dove deeper. He was responsible, damn it. He was here, wasn’t he? Doing his job, obeying his prince.

  Dylan exhaled in a cloud of silver bubbles. Not that he could tell Regina that.

  Not that she would understand or believe him if he did. Hard-headed, sharp-tongued Regina, with her quick laugh and hair-trigger temper, was completely human.

  And he was . . .

  He had been human once. The thought was another barb. Had believed himself human. Had imagined himself part of a family.

  A memory pulled at him, strong as any current: his mother, posing them for a picture, ten-year-old Caleb with Lucy smiling on his lap, and Dylan, already standing a little apart. He had known even then that he was different, that things were about to change.

  He hadn’t guessed how much.

  He never thought he would be the one responsible for tearing their family apart.

  He raced through water dense with light and life; broke the surface into the sharp, bright air of morning. The sea was his refuge, the place where he could feel and move and breathe and be. But today he could not outpace his thoughts. Could not escape Regina’s image, the smooth skin of her arms and chest, the gold cross glinting below her collarbone, her scowl. “I can’t give Nick a mother who’s around all the time. The least I can do is spare him some guy who won’t stick.”

  Dylan blew out a noisy gust of air. He would not stick. His kind never did. If he cared for her . . . His thoughts tangled like seaweed. He did not care for anyone. It was only fair for him to leave her now, before— how had she put it?— she became attached to him.

  Only, of course, he could not go.

  He rode the rolling waves toward the deserted shore. Conn had charged him to discover what the demons wanted on World’s End. For the past two weeks, Dylan had eavesdropped, observed, and tramped all over the island, hoping to find some trace of demonkind, some clue to their purpose.

  To the immortal seaborn, the time was nothing. But Dylan was dying by minutes, trapped in his human body, trapped by his human family, trapped on this fucking island, forced to watch Regina joke and work behind the counter, her long slim legs, her strong firm arms, always in motion, always just beyond his reach.

  Frustration drove him onto the rocks. He hauled himself onto the stony beach as the surf exploded around him. The water drained away, and Dylan stood naked in the foam, his webbed toes gripping the sand, his sealskin swirling around his ankles.

  He stooped to drag his pelt from the sea; froze.

  Something was wrong. He could sense it. Smell it. He straightened slowly.

  The air was thick and still. Under the August sun, the island gave off heat like a beast breathing. Dylan tested and tasted the wind, feeling the tickle of ash in the back of his throat.

  His hackles rose. Demon.

  In the air.

  On the island.

  Among humans.

  Dylan’s lips pulled back from his teeth. Retrieving his clothes from their hiding place, he began to dress.

  Finally, he could hunt.

  * * *

  Regina lay cold and curled on her side, clinging to sleep like a blanket. Pain in her head, in her cramped legs and shoulders. Burning in her throat. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick and swollen. She tried to swallow, and the fire in her throat woke her.

  Oh my God, oh my God . . .

  And then, Nicky.

  Instinct surged, quicker than memory. Her muscles tensed. She had to run. To fight. To protect Nicky.

  The thought jolted her eyelids open.

  Dark. She was somewhere dark and gritty, damp and cold. She began to shake. Basement? No. There was an outside feel to the air, an outside smell, earth and rock and water. She could hear it, water lapping.

  Where was she? Where was Jericho? Why was it so dark? She blinked, straining her eyes against the blackness. Even on a cloudy night, she should see a hint of moon, the reflection of the water.

  She struggled to sit, pushing herself upright with her palms against the cold, flat surface, taking cautious inventory. She wasn’t tied up. That was good. She had all her clothes on. Even better. Despite various scrapes and bruises, she didn’t think she had been raped. Yet.

  She swallowed convulsively. Agony.

  Her cracked lips parted without sound. Her heart pounded.

  Must not cry out. Must not scream. Jericho might be nearby. Sleeping? What if he was only waiting for her to wake up before he came back to do—

  Her mind stumbled, teetering on the edge of panic. He could do whatever he wanted to her. Unless she found a way to stop him. To escape.

  A tiny sound escaped her bruised throat. Her scrapes burned, bloody in the dark. She bit her lip hard, digging her nails into the gritty floor, curling her hands into fists, shuddering against the cold.

  Think of Nick. Don’t panic. Think.

  She was hurt in the dark. She was alone. For now.

  So. She better make the most of the time she had.

  She crawled shakily to her knees.

  * * *

  As Caleb drove inland, the oversized cottages of the summer people gradually gave way to the older, smaller houses of year-round residents.

  Detective Evelyn Hall, State Criminal Investigation Division, rode shotgun beside him. Hall, square and weathered as a barn, had come with the evidence team. Caleb’s surprise at seeing her step off the ferry must have shown, because she’d said, “Seems women on your island can’t catch a break.”

  Caleb had smiled grimly, acknowledging the dig. Only months after he accepted the position of police chief on World’s End, Maggie had been attacked and the selkie Gwyneth’s naked, dead body had been discovered on the beach. Now Regina was missing.

  Evelyn Hall had suspected Caleb in the earlier attacks. But she was the only female officer available to him, and if— when— they found Regina Barone, Caleb wanted a woman with him.

  Hall nodded out the Jeep window at a soaring A-frame perched above a rock face. “Nice little place.”

  Her tone was still dry, but Caleb recognized and responded to the olive branch. “The old quarry’s a swimming hole now— or a skating pond, in winter. Lot of vacation homes around here.”

  “You said we were headed to a homeless camp.”

  Caleb nodded. �
�On the other side. Used to be a waste dump for the mining company.”

  They passed more homes, the McMansions ceding ground to dilapidated cabins, the terraced landscaping replaced by abandoned appliances and rusting pickups. Not all the island had benefited from high lobster prices and rising property taxes. Here, Caleb knew, were households that had fallen off the beaten track and out of the mainstream, adults inclined to drink or drugs, children subsisting on deer meat and short lobster.

  Which brought them to the homeless encampment, strewn like garbage between the boulders. Waste disposal was a problem on the islands. Anything transported on had to be hauled off or burned. As a result, there were plenty of materials lying around for reuse. Caleb counted several structures built of plywood, cardboard, and scrap metal, and one honest-to-God tent pitched under the pines, its faded blue nylon spotted with mildew.

  The men around the fire— five, six, seven, not bad odds— were as ragged and seedy as their shelters.

  Caleb got out first. Evelyn Hall waited by the Jeep, the door open and the shotgun within easy reach.

  A fat, muscled man sporting a red bandana and a graying ponytail stood as Caleb approached.

  Caleb greeted him. “Bull.”

  “Chief. You checking up on Lonnie?”

  Lonnie, the clinic patient, who claimed he was possessed by the devil.

  “How’s he doing?” Caleb asked.

  Bull shrugged. “See for yourself.”

  Caleb found Lonnie in the ring around the fire, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the smoke. He didn’t look up. In the good news department, he didn’t levitate off his boulder and start spitting pea soup either.

  “Make sure he takes his meds,” Caleb said.

  “I’m not his fucking nurse,” Bull said.

  “Me either,” Caleb said evenly. “I want to speak with Jericho.”

  “He’s sick.”

  Caleb’s gaze traveled over the encampment. “Mind if I look around?”

  Bull crossed his thick arms over his massive chest. “Got a search warrant?”

  “Got a camping permit?” Caleb asked evenly.

  “Fuck,” Bull said.

  “I’ll take that as permission to search,” Caleb said.

  He regarded the dark opening of the nearest shelter, sprouting from the shadow of the trees like a giant fungus, and his mind flashed back to hot white streets and sharp black shadows, blank doorways and blind windows,snipers on rooftops. His belly tightened. He was glad to have Hall and her shotgun at his back.

  He ducked inside the structure, a finger of sweat tracing down his spine.

  A stench compounded of beer and urine, sweat and mold, hit him. No Jericho. Nobody at all. No body. Caleb didn’t know whether to be sorry or glad.

  He wiped his face. And heard a rustle in the leaves outside, a crackle in the stillness. Squirrel? Deer? His instincts jumped on high alert. His hand as he reached for his gun trembled. Shit.

  Light slanted beneath the rear wall where plywood rested on an exposed root. Caleb eyed the crack. Barely room for someone there to crawl out the back while he came in the front. Not two someones, not a man dragging a woman. (Bound, unconscious, dead.) But that rustle . . .

  He backed out of the structure— there wasn’t room to turn around— and signaled to Hall to hold her position. Would she understand? She nodded without speaking and leveled the shotgun to her shoulder.

  “Hey,” Bull protested.

  “Shut up,” she said.

  Caleb eased around the side of the shelter, his gaze sweeping the woods and slope behind. Tough going if he had to give chase. Leaves crunched. A bush rattled. He raised his weapon.

  And came face to face with his brother, Dylan.

  Caleb exhaled. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Dylan’s black gaze lifted from the muzzle of the gun to Caleb’s face. “Your job.”

  Caleb’s job was protecting the island. He didn’t have time for this shit. “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Regina Barone. Have you seen her?”

  There was an instant’s utter stillness. Some expression flickered on Dylan’s face and was gone too quickly to be identified. “Two days ago,” he said coolly. As if it didn’t matter. As if she didn’t matter. “Why?”

  “She’s gone.”

  Dylan was rigid. “Where?”

  “I wish to hell I knew,” Caleb said, more honestly than he intended.

  Dylan’s face was white, his mouth a thin, grim line. “Hell has more to do with this than either of us could wish.”

  Caleb frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I must find her,” Dylan said.

  8

  “YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE,” CALEB SAID.

  Dylan raised his eyebrows, fighting the pressure in his chest. “Obviously not. Since I came back.”

  He could hardly breathe. The urgency that had driven him from the sea surged back. Only now the stink of something wrong, the stench of evil, was sharper. Stronger.

  Regina was gone.

  He made himself like stone, like flint, like the prince’s tower at Caer Subai. Cold and immovable. Emotion would not bring her back.

  “What are you doing here?” Caleb asked bluntly.

  Dylan relaxed his fists; forced himself to speak coolly. “I followed the demon spoor here. If they have her, I will find her.”

  If they held her . . . He did not like to imagine what the demons could do to her smooth skin, her strong spirit.

  “What would demons want with a twenty-nine-year-old cook?” Caleb asked skeptically.

  Dylan shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t know. They should not have taken her in any case. She is warded.”

  “Warded?”

  “She wears the triskelion on her wrist— the wardens’ mark. It should have protected her.”

  “From demons maybe,” Caleb said. “A tattoo won’t stop a human kidnapper. She could have been grabbed by this Jones character.”

  “Have you found him? Questioned him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I will.”

  “Forget it,” Caleb said. “This is a police investigation. You can’t interfere.”

  Dylan suppressed the snarl in his throat; stared down his nose instead. “And if he is possessed, you can’t help. You need me, little brother.”

  Caleb didn’t like that. Dylan could tell. Too bad. “Right,” Caleb said tersely at last. “Let’s go.”

  Dylan followed him around the corner of the ratty shelter. Stopped. The half-dozen humans collected around the fire did not concern him. However, the large woman with the gun standing beside Caleb’s Cherokee could be a problem.

  She swung the long barrel toward him. “Who’s that?” “Don’t say anything,” Caleb said to Dylan.

  Fine with him. He had had enough of humans and talking in the past two weeks. But there was that gun . . .

  “Detective Hall,” Caleb said. “My brother, Dylan.”

  Dylan met her gaze and smiled at her slowly, deliberately, watching in satisfaction as the barrel of the shotgun wavered and dipped. Not quite enough.

  “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

  “Assisting in the investigation,” Caleb said.

  Dylan could see from the woman’s uniform that she was some kind of law enforcement officer. Wouldn’t she recognize official bullshit? Object to it?

  He continued to smile, concentrating his power until he saw her pupils dilate and the square line of her shoulders relax.

  “Oh,” she said in a soft, faraway voice. “Well, that’s . . . Dylan, did you say?”

  Dylan nodded, still smiling faintly.

  “Very nice to meet you, Dylan,” Hall said and giggled.

  Caleb shot him a sharp look. “Shit. What did you do to her?” he muttered.

  Dylan shrugged. She was human and female and therefore susceptible. Perhaps more susceptible than most, nothing at all like— But thinking of Regina ca
used a spasm of something like panic in his chest. “We’re looking for Jericho,” he said.

  “Yeah.” Caleb shook his head. “This way.”

  The men around the fire watched— curious, predatory, or indifferent— as Dylan and Caleb picked their way through the littered camp.