Sins Against the Sea Read online

  They only harm those who sin against the sea…

  Cordelia Parker, an oil company spokeswoman, has never believed in magic, despite her late mother’s fanciful stories. Then, during an oil spill in Scotland’s mysterious Minch, her reality is shattered when she stumbles upon a merman in a hidden cave. Even more shocking, she feels the same soul-level connection to him she felt for the ocean before it claimed both her parents.

  A fish out of water in his sexist culture, Cuan feels a powerful attraction to Cordelia, but, because she knows what he is, he is duty-bound to kill her. If humankind discovers the Blue Men of the Minch are real, they will destroy them the way they destroy the ocean, whose abundance belongs at once to all and none. Thus, the only way he can have a life with her is to prove she is more than she appears, trust her with his secrets, and give up his undersea world.

  With so many obstacles to overcome, they will need a miracle to be together…or maybe just a splash of ancient island magic.

  http://ninamasonauthor.com/

  Books by Nina Mason

  Royal Pains

  Devil in Duke’s Clothing

  The Duke’s Bedeviled Bride

  The Devil’s Masquerade

  The Devils Who Would Be King (coming in May)

  Knights of the Tarot

  (Revision and re-release of Knights of Avalon)

  Knight of Wands

  Knight of Cups

  Knight of Pentacles (coming in August)

  Knight of Swords (coming in 2017)

  Out of Print

  The Queen of Swords

  The Tin Man

  Starry Knight

  Dark and Stormy Knight

  Sins Against the Sea

  Nina Mason

  Copyright © 2016 Nina Mason

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Prologue

  Off the west coast of Scotland

  Ten years ago

  When Brian Parker saw the face in the water, his blood turned as cold as the brisk ocean wind stinging his cheeks. Gripping the rail, he leaned over the side, straining for a better look. He tightened his hold when, under his shaking landlubber legs, the deck bucked like an unbroken mustang.

  Good God.

  There it was again. A man’s face, only not.

  The complexion was an otherworldly bluish gray and the eyes were slightly too large and set far apart, lending the small features a childlike appearance. It was not, however, a child. Or even human.

  Brian stared in wonder, struggling to make sense of what he saw. The icy water might explain the cyanotic complexion. Perhaps the man had fallen overboard and had been drifting for a while. The hair, which looked to be swimming on the current, might be an illusion caused by clinging seaweed, especially since the Minch boasted some of the deepest kelp forests in the whole United Kingdom.

  A dead body might easily become entangled as it drifted.

  Straightening his posture, Brian looked around. He was alone on the deck, his co-workers and the crew all being in the galley, playing poker and drinking good Highland single-malt. The room had grown thick with smoke and tension, so he’d popped out for some peace and fresh air.

  Should he go back inside and tell them? If he did, what the devil would he say? That he’d seen a blue man with seaweed hair off the port side of the stern? That would be rich. He suddenly felt like William Shatner’s character in that episode of Twilight Zone—the one where the airplane passenger saw a goblin on the wing tampering with the engines. Everybody thought the man had lost his mind until the plane went down.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Brian let out a sigh. There was little point in telling the others. If the man was dead already, there wasn’t much they could do for him beyond alerting the coastguard when they landed at Stornoway. It wasn’t as if a bunch of oil company scientists were going to fish a body out of the ocean.

  Unless the man wasn’t dead. Filling his lungs with freezing sea air, he peered over the rail again, seeing only black water. He blinked hard and looked again, still seeing nothing.

  Perhaps it had only been a dolphin with a bit of seaweed caught around its beak. He let out his breath in a cloud of white vapor. Yes, of course. That was the only logical explanation. A pod of them had been swimming alongside the yacht all day. They must still be out there, invisible in the darkness, though still following.

  Hearing a splash, he looked down. Something silver flashed just below the water’s inky surface. Yes, that was it. He’d seen a dolphin. Nothing more than a stupid dolphin.

  He rubbed his eyes and inflated his lungs with damp, salty air. He was tired. Bone tired. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Believing he’d seen a face had probably been nothing but a momentary hallucination, fueled by the tales of the locals, who called this stretch of water Sruth nam Fear Gorm.

  Stream of the Blue Men.

  Even as he threw off his concerns, Brian could hear the fisherman’s salty warning playing inside his memory like an old phonograph record. “Pray the Blue Men sleep when ye pass through the Minch, for, if roused, they’ll summon storms to wreck yer vessel and drown all aboard—unless, of course, you’re clever enough to answer them in rhyme.”

  They’d met the old fisherman—Jimmy Bell was his name—at the Polly, the only pub on Eriskay, the tiny island they’d set sail from just before sunset.

  According to Bell, these blue-gray storm kelpies were demi-gods who dwelled in an otherworldly land known as Tír fo Thuinn, which translated as “Land Under Waves.” The entrance was hidden deep inside a sea cave beneath the Shiant Islands, the small cluster of privately owned outcrops now slumbering on the northern horizon like great black beasts.

  Bell’s description—of phosphorescent coral castles, golden sand littered with pearls, and tables overflowing with salmon, lobster, crab, cockles, and scallops—reminded Brian of his late wife’s stories of Finfolkaheem, the home of the Finfolk of Orkney.

  He’d met Aerwyna there while working on the design for an offshore drilling platform. He’d come across her sitting alone on a pile of rocks, gazing out to sea as she combed her long red hair. For one crazy moment, he thought he’d come upon a mermaid, but what looked like a tail turned out to be nothing more than a shimmering skirt spread out behind her.

  He shook his head, smiling at his momentary foolishness, then and now. The idea that half-fish demigods dwelled in the Minch was about as plausible as a plesiosaurus trolling the depths of Loch Ness.

  The Scots certainly had vivid imaginations. He’d give them that.

  Now convinced he’d imagined the face, Brian peered over the rail once more. Aside from the bobbing lifesaver, there was only black water shot through with white foam. Blinking hard, he looked again, just to be sure. Still nothing. He let out his breath in a burst of white vapor and rubbed his eyes.

  Footsteps behind him turned him toward the helm. His stomach clenched when he saw Peter Blackwell, senior vice president for exploration, standing just behind him, looking put out.

  “Oh, there you are,” Blackwell said in an Orkney burr. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  “I was just enjoying the sea air,” Brian replied, making himself smile.

  “I expect you’re eager to see your daughter.”

  “I am indeed. Very eager.”

  Corey would be waiting for him on the pier at Stornoway. She was on spring break from UCLA, where she was majoring in marine biology. They’d be staying on in the islands for the next couple of weeks to explore the sites and do some whale watching. He’d love to get some fishing in, too, but Corey, like her late mother, was vehemently opposed to
killing animals for sport; even fish, which nobody in their right mind gave a damn about.

  “Enjoy your time off, but I’ll expect you to hit the ground running the moment you’re back.”

  Brian, cringing at the reminder of the project he so desperately wanted to quit, opened his mouth, but practicality stopped him from saying the words that would set him free. Freedom came at a price, after all. If he lost his only source of income, he could not pay his bills, support his daughter in the style to which she was accustomed, or continue to pay for her education. To realize her dream of becoming a marine biologist, she’d need at least a master’s degree, and he didn’t want her to have to work her way through college the way he had.

  Blackwell walked away. Forgetting him, Brian looked up at the moon. Even through the thickening fog, he could make out the shadows of landforms and craters. He wondered if the flag Neil Armstrong planted back in 1969 was still up there, frozen in zero gravity. He still recalled the night of the landing, how he and his folks huddled around the black-and-white Zenith while his father snapped pictures of the television screen with his Polaroid camera.

  That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

  Back then, like so many other American boys, Brian had dreamed of becoming an astronaut. He’d gone on to earn degrees in rocket science and space station technology, and even worked on Skylab before the government pulled the rug out from under the space program.

  Vintage resentments speared his heart. America turned her back on the mysteries of the universe, walked away from her shot at glory, and for what? To feed her huddled masses? Hell, no. The government abandoned the space program to fight an unwinnable war on communism.

  At his clever wife’s urging, he’d retooled for submarines and underwater explorers. Then, Conch Oil recruited him for a top-secret venture, which seemed like a godsend until he learned what they’d hired him to design. Poor Aerwyna. If she really had drowned, she’d be rolling in her watery grave right now.

  A sudden icy gust snapped Brian’s attention back to the deck. Shivering, he zipped his parka, turned up his collar, and hurried below. Inside the cabin, he stretched out on his berth, telling himself he’d only rest his eyes for a few moments.

  Sometime later, he came awake with a jolt when the yacht pitched under him. Another violent lurch threw him to the floor. The whole vessel shook as the bone-chilling screech of scraping metal resounded through the cabin.

  Panic stormed his system, sharpening his senses. As he scrambled out of the berth, the boat lurched again, knocking him to his knees. He crawled to the door, got hold of the knob, and yanked it open. The sea poured in, bombarding him with ice-cold saltwater. Shivering and soaked to the skin, he waded into the corridor.

  “What’s happening?” he called out, but got no answer.

  The water was rising fast. Struggling to stand, he sloshed toward the stairs, fighting the rushing current. Up above, wind howled and waves thundered, rocking the yacht like a giant cradle.

  Up above, he could hear screaming wind and thundering waves. The boat was tossing wildly. Gripping the iron banister, he hauled himself toward the deck. The lighthouse at the mouth of Stornoway Harbor towered over the starboard side. The beam flashed in his eyes, blinding him. A wave crashed nearby, spraying his wet clothes with icy seawater shrapnel. He groped his way amidships, where the life vests were stowed. There was a blast and a red flare shot up over the bow. He pushed toward it. Through the spray, he saw the captain on the bridge, pistol in hand.

  “What’s happened?” Brian shouted over the wind.

  “We’ve hit the Beasts,” the captain bellowed back, looking defeated. “We’re going down. It’s every man for himself.”

  The others were scurrying about like frightened rats. Some were trying to launch a bright orange dingy over the side. None wore a life vest. As the raft went over, he rushed to the rail, planning to jump. There was no room. A wave crashed, sinking the dingy. It did not resurface. Neither did any of his co-workers.

  Heart hammering inside his chest, Brian spun around. That was when he spotted Blackwell clutching a dozen or so life vests.

  “Peter,” he bellowed over the booming wind. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “The plans,” Blackwell returned with a desperate gaze. “Where are they?”

  It took Brian a moment to realize his boss meant the blueprints he’d mailed home from Skye the day before. As he began to answer, a wave smashed over the bow. He hunkered down, watching in bewilderment, as Blackwell staggered to the rail and tossed the vests overboard.

  Another wave slammed down beside Brian, cracking the boards. As the deck reared, he grabbed hold of a davit and hung on for dear life. Over the noise, a distant bell tolled. A death knell, he thought with a shudder.

  A wave crashed over him. Too weak to hold on, he let it take him. As he plunged into the sea, he saw the merman, his shimmering fish-tail swishing and his long black hair swimming around his head like Medusa’s snakes.

  “Help me,” Brian pleaded in a flurry of bubbles. “For my daughter, Corey. I’m all she’s got.”

  The merman made no move to assist him. He simply glared at Brian with hate in his wide-set blue-green eyes. Jimmy Bell said the Blue Men of the Minch only harmed those who sinned against the sea and now, too late, Brian Parker believed.

  Chapter One

  The Minch, Modern Day

  With a thrust of his hips and a flick of his tail, Cuan pushed through the murky depths of the strait dividing mainland Scotia from the chain of islands comprising the Outer Hebrides. Though it was dark this far beneath the water’s surface, he could see well enough with his large eyes and natural night vision. Just ahead were the fuzzy green peaks of an undersea mountain range, a favorite feeding ground of pilot whales and white-beaked dolphins. Off to the left, a glint of silver caught his eye—a school of minnows darting in perfect unison. Down below, the sea floor was a swaying drab-green carpet of toothed wrack and bull kelp.

  Tightening his grip on his gold-stringed harp, he torpedoed toward his destination—a hidden cove near Lochmaddy on North Uist. Loch nam Madadh, in his native tongue. Loch of the Hounds, named for the spaniel-shaped rock formation at the mouth of the harbor.

  Regret stabbed his heart when the algae-flocked skeleton of a yacht came into view. The words of the man he’d let drown still haunted: Help me. For my daughter, Corey. I’m all she’s got.

  Cuan could not understand why he still lamented letting the man die. Humans were no friends of Oceanus and Tethys, the sea gods his race worshipped and served. Humans plundered their watery dominion, thoughtless of those whose survival depended upon what they stole and destroyed. Even now, the water tasted of the bitter residue of human selfishness and greed—a foul flavor that grew more potent by the month.

  Sometimes, on sleepless nights, he wondered what had become of the man’s daughter. He, too, was an orphan. His mother had been murdered by her human husband the day he was born and his father, the clan’s best hunter, had been killed by a Great White when Cuan was only ten.

  Did Corey, wherever she might be, sometimes feel, as he did, like a storm-tossed ship without a captain?

  The sight of a shark emerging from the shadows triggered Cuan’s internal alarm, rinsing away all thought of the humans. Sharks were dangerous, and to be avoided when alone and unarmed.

  Cursing himself for failing to bring his trident along, Cuan dove deeper and took shelter within a reef. Encrusted in algae the color of heather, the coral barrier squirmed with life: urchins, starfish, crabs, and polyps. Luminous white anemone waved on the current like tiny palm trees, reminding him of an incident from his youth. Shan, the chieftain’s son and his best friend, had dared him to touch one, knowing the wee creature would sting like a jellyfish.

  The betrayal still bothered Cuan. Shan, the closet thing he had to a brother, was supposed to look out for him, not make him the dupe of cruel pranks.

  As the predator swam past, relief wa
shed through Cuan. The shark was only a filter feeder. Huge and menacing in appearance, but harmless to his kind. Of late, he’d seen more of them in the Minch than ever before.

  Meredith, the female he’d mated with last springtide, said it was because the strait was changing due to something called “global warming.” Basking sharks fed on plankton, she’d explained, and plankton was more abundant in warmer waters. Thus, as the water temperature rose, the plankton population increased, attracting more basking sharks to the Minch.

  Humans were to blame for that, too. Just as they were to blame for the rape of the sea floor, the dwindling populations of fish, the toxic dead spots where not even algae would grow, and the terrible cairns of debris and savaged ocean life dumped everywhere by their dredgers.

  “Humans are even more despicable than sharks, sea monsters, and Finmen,” he’d told Meredith in response to her explanation.

  “Only because humans have lost their connection to the sacred in the natural world,” she’d insisted. “Instead of hating them, you should look for ways to help them reconnect.”

  He scoffed through his gills at the memory of her statement. What did she know? She was only a Nic, and Nics served no purpose beyond bearing young. Macs, the males of the species, defended the seven seas. Macs were superior to Nics in every way. That was the reason Poseidon took Pelops to Mount Olympus and taught him to drive his winged chariot over the waves; the reason Zeus abducted Ganymede, the handsome shepherd prince; and why Achilles grieved so violently after Patroclus fell in battle that Thetis, his sea-goddess mother, filled the ocean with tears in sympathy for the loss. Even Cuchulainn, the great hero of Ireland, made one bed and slept one sleep with his fellow warriors.