Sins Against the Sea Page 3

  Every night, after tucking Corey in, her mom would tell her all sorts of fantastic stories about bewitching merrows, shapeshifting seals, and blood-thirsty sea monsters. Once, she told Corey about a man in Ireland who found two merrows on the side of a rock. Apparently, they’d been washed up on shore by a fierce storm. The mermaid was dead and the merman was barely clinging to life. The Irishman took the poor creature to his house, where he kept him in a tub of water while nursing him back to health.

  Her mom claimed the story was true—that it happened during the Victorian era and was reported in all the papers. Corey, however, who’d inherited her dad’s scientific rationality, could find nothing to substantiate the tale through an internet search a few years later.

  As much as she loved her mom’s colorful folktales, she never believed them. She did, however, appreciate the miracle of the ocean. Take seashells, for example. Like snowflakes, no two were the same. She grew up in Marina del Rey, a coastal town near Los Angeles, and, every moment she wasn’t in school, she was down at the beach gathering shells, cataloging her finds, checking them against her reference books, and recording the Latin names for species and genus.

  Corey shook her head to bring herself back to the present. Shit. What brought on that little stroll down Memory Lane? The last thing she needed after the crappy day she’d had was for all the skeletons of her past to come dancing out of the closet like a Tim Burton chorus line.

  The day got off to a bad start. On the way to work, thanks to some idiot with no tail lights, she’d spilled coffee down the front of her blouse. Then, only moments after arriving at the office, she ran her pantyhose while trying to wash out the stain. Luckily, she kept an extra pair in her desk, but still. Pantyhose were an expense men, who still earned more than women doing the same job, didn’t have to incur. As she raced to pull on her new pair, her secretary called through the door, “Gird your loins. Peter’s on the warpath again.”

  Peter Blackwell, Corey’s unpredictable boss, was the president of Conch Oil. On a good day, working for him was like being a trained tiger in a three-ring circus. On a bad day, it was like playing Chinese Fire Drill on a rollercoaster.

  This had been one of the bad days. Normally, Corey worked late—sometimes until ten or eleven at night, but not today. Today, she started watching the clock right after lunch, counting down the minutes until quitting time. Peter’s latest game-changing scramble had given her a splitting headache and she couldn’t wait to get home, strip off her suit and stockings, and uncork a chilled bottle of liquid stress-relief.

  So, at the stroke of five o’clock, she’d made a beeline for her car, only to spend the next two hours stuck in the parking lot that was Pacific Coast Highway. She inched along, teeth grinding, knuckles white on the wheel, all the way from Wilmington, the refinery-scented home of Conch’s North American headquarters, to her string-bikini of an apartment in Belmont Shores.

  Welcome to Southern California.

  Thankfully, she lived at the beach, the only thing that made the stress of the job, the tooth-chipping smog, and the insanely overcrowded interstates even remotely tolerable. She might be a director now, but oceanfront real estate in Southern California was ridiculously expensive, and she’d much rather reside in a matchbox in Belmont Shores than something bigger in some inland hellhole like Lakewood or Cerritos.

  She took a sip from the wineglass in my hand, savoring the soft citrus finish along with the gentle sea-scented breeze blowing off the ocean. What she needed right now was more wine and to veg out in front of back-to-back reruns of Big Bang Theory, her favorite zone-out television show.

  Another swallow emptied her glass. On her way to get more, something on the television news caught her attention. A group of angry-looking protesters, many of them covered in what looked like oil, were chanting while holding placards. One of them was pushing a stroller. The baby, covered in the same black guck as the grown-ups, was holding a sign, too, which read, Drill, Baby, Drill. The others appeared to be shouting at the cameras as they held up their own signs.

  End Global Warning

  Break the Addiction

  Remember the Exxon Valdez

  Corey glowered at the screen. That last one was hitting below the belt. Who could ever forget the Exxon Valdez? She might have been just a kid when the tanker ran aground on Prince William Sound, but the images on the television news left an indelible impression: rocky shorelines edged with black goop, dead birds and fish coated in sludge, that iridescent sheen on the water, delicate habitats trampled by clean-up crews.

  Concern soon surpassed her umbrage. Had something happened or was it just a group of environmentalists vilifying the oil companies for no good reason?

  “Drill, baby drill.”

  “Spill, baby spill.”

  “Kill, baby kill.”

  Corey clenched her jaw and rolled her eyes. What was it going to take to make these people understand the occasional spill was the trade-off for America’s addiction to petroleum products?

  The news anchor’s booming voice broke in on the images. “Protesters like those you see here are coming out in droves tonight in response to the announcement less than an hour ago that an oil tanker has run aground in the Hebrides, the chain of islands off the west coast of Scotland. According to Scotland’s Maritime and Coastguard Agency, which is heading to the scene right now, the tanker capsized after running aground last night. At this hour, the whereabouts and condition of the crew are unknown. The tanker’s ownership and destination also remain a mystery…”

  A lump formed in Corey’s throat. Please God, let the tanker not belong to Conch. When the image on the screen switched to aerial footage of the scene, she started gnawing on the same jagged fingernail that had run her pantyhose that morning. The freighter was lying on its side among the rocks like a marooned whale. All around the big ship, a hazy sheen danced on the water’s surface. The name Ketos was painted on the side of the tanker in bold white letters. Running across the bottom of the screen were the words, “Live from Ronay, Outer Hebrides Islands, Scotland.”

  She set her wineglass on the counter before heading to the bookcase. She remembered some of the islands from her one fateful trip to the area, but had never heard of Ronay. Pulling down her dad’s prized atlas from its place on the shelf, she flipped through the oversized pages until she found the map of the Hebrides Islands. The archipelago’s jagged coastline looked like a jigsaw puzzle of inlets, peninsulas, and tiny atolls. It took her a minute to locate Ronay, which the accompanying text described as “a small islet on the west coast, wedged between the larger islands of North and South Uist.”

  She ran her index finger up the coastline, stopping when she reached the dot labeled “Stornoway.” The name unearthed the memory of her father’s death, sending chills through her bloodstream. Just like that, she was back on the pier, freezing her ass off. She’d been waiting for her dad to dock when a violent storm kicked up out of nowhere. To escape the rain and howling wind, she’d ducked into a dockside tavern, which smelled strongly of fried fish, stale cigarettes, and spilled beer. She could still smell it, even now, ten years later. From the window, frozen in horror, she’d watched as the waves slammed the yacht with her father aboard into the rocks at the mouth of the harbor.

  “Jesus wept,” one of the patrons said as the hull splintered. “It’s like the bloody Iolaire all over again.”

  She didn’t understand the reference until she looked it up years later. Back in 1919, the Iolaire hit the same rocks, killing more than two hundred young men from the islands returning from the First World War. The rocks that had killed the soldiers and her father, she’d also learned, were called the Beasts of Holm.

  Corey shut the atlas and sucked in some air, fighting to drive the memories back into the place from which they’d escaped; the place somewhere deep in her psyche where she locked away all the painful things from her past she’d rather not think about.

  Chapter Two

  Stretched out on hi
s seaweed nest in his room in the castle tower, Cuan lay awake, his mind tossing like a cask on the waves. His internal clock told him it was almost morning. The rowdy sounds of merriment rising from below let him know the victory celebration was still going strong.

  Heaving a sigh of bubbles, he closed his eyes. He’d taken part in the revelry for a time, but all the while, his stomach remained as taut as the strings on his harp. Hoping the whisky might ease his anguish, he’d drunk more than was prudent. After coming upstairs to sleep it off, he’d had a terrible dream in which the ocean had turned as black as tar. All the fish were dying and he was swimming around in frantic circles, trying to scoop up as many as he could.

  Was it merely a nightmare brought on by overindulgence and worry over the tanker’s leaking hull? Or was it an actual glimpse into the future?

  If the dream turned out to be the latter, it would not be the first time he’d seen through the fabric of time. His gift of second sight, uncommon among his kind, was one reason Arbach the druid had assigned the whale as Cuan’s animal. Every warrior was given a totem during his initiation rites. Turtle, crab, otter, salamander, dolphin, lobster, seahorse, octopus, salmon, and a host of others, each possessing its own unique wisdom and magic.

  The whale, though hardly the fearsome protector Cuan hoped for, was a soulful creature symbolizing intuition, the power of song, and inner depths. The choice made sense given his talents—gifts he did his best to hide by keeping his presentiments to himself and singing for the others only when pressed. He did not want to be seen as different or to stand out. He only wanted to fit in, to blend, to be like everyone else. How different he felt on the inside was hard enough to bear without displaying his dissimilarities for all to see and ridicule.

  With a saltwater sigh, Cuan rolled onto his back. The ceiling, spattered with luminescent microbes, resembled a night sky filled with stars. Similar microbes covered every surface inside the cave, lending the whole place an iridescent blue-green glow.

  Beset by a sudden itch, he swished his tail, lighting up the floating microbes like shimmering trails of fairy dust. The itch meant the change had begun. In two days, it would be springtide—the start of the breeding season. Once his tail molted, releasing his legs, he’d get to live on dry land for three whole months with a female devoted to his care. What a shame he’d also be living among his mortal enemies.

  Some humans love the sea as much as we do.

  This time, Meredith’s words gave him pause. A small part of him wanted to believe her, though, try as he might, he could see no proof to support her claim. Draping an arm across his forehead, he closed his eyes.

  Scenes from last springtide played upon his eyelids, transporting him back in time. He saw himself on Eriskay with freshly sprouted legs, staggering through the dark to the meeting place: The Polly, the island’s only tavern—named for a ship sunk by his clan for its cargo of whisky during the first human war to end all wars.

  As if humans would ever stop killing one another.

  At the bar, he ordered a shot of unpeated malt from the isle of Mull. The whisky eased the tension in his temples, though it felt queer to be drinking from a glass instead of his bota. The glass, too, felt foreign in his hand, and as fragile as fish eggs. How easily he could have shattered it in his strong webbed fingers.

  Drawing a deep breath, he claimed a quiet corner table and glanced around. There were only a handful of patrons in the place—a relief since he grew tense around too many humans. In breeding season, his skin faded and pinked, losing most of its grayish-blue pallor, so he blended reasonably well. Still, on the inside, he felt like—how did the humans put it?—oh, aye. A fish out of water.

  Sensing a presence hovering over him, he’d looked up, startled to find a female standing there—a breeding Nic with wide blue eyes, a speckled nose, and flowing copper hair.

  “May I join you?” she asked in his language.

  When he nodded, she claimed the chair beside him.

  “I have come over from Eige.”

  “Have you?”

  Though he’d never been to the Notched Isle, he was intrigued by stories he’d heard of the sands that sang when walked upon. He’d also heard tales of the massacre that had taken place there centuries ago. The MacLeods of Skye had set a fire at the entrance of a cave in which every MacDonald on the island had taken refuge. After the smoke smothered all their kin, the MacDonalds of Uist got revenge by burning the MacLeods alive in the kirk where they worshiped their god. The ruins of the burnt-out chapel still stood on the Vaternish Peninsula—a monument to human barbarity.

  “What is your name?” She gave him a nervous smile.

  “Cuan.”

  His father had given him the name—the word for the sea in their language. All storm kelpie names, male and female, honored the ocean in some way.

  “I am Meredith.”

  Meredith, whose name meant “of the sea,” put her right hand on his left, which rested upon his thigh. He jerked his hand away, unprepared for the intimacy, and then gave it back to her. Like it or not, he was duty-bound to breed.

  “Am I not to your liking?” she asked, looking wounded.

  Her expression gave him a qualm. He’d not meant to hurt her feelings. He simply felt awkward. This was his first breeding season and he did not yet feel comfortable on dry land. With a forced smile, he took stock of her attributes. She had large bosoms, a trim waist, and wide hips—all of which appealed to him more than he cared to admit.

  “You will do very well,” he told her, forcing a smile.

  “I have taken a cottage not far from here,” she said, cheering some. “Shall we go there?”

  Swallowing the last of his drink, he dropped a handful of salvaged coins on the table before leading the way to the door. Outside, stars filled the night sky, their reflection shimmering on the surface like mercury. The air smelled potently of the sea, which eased his discomfort some. Or perhaps the whisky had taken the edge off his nervousness. It had warmed his blood, too, thank the gods, but not enough to keep him from shivering. The onshore breeze was bitingly cold. His insulating layer provided a buffer against cold water, but offered little protection against icy wind.

  As they walked and talked, he grew more comfortable with her. After a time, they took off their shoes. As the sand pushed softly between his toes, he marveled at the novel feeling. When she tried to take his hand, he let her, noting with fascination the delicacy of her small bones.

  “How old are you, Cuan?”

  “One and thirty.” Still young for a storm kelpie, as most lived more than three centuries.

  “Have you sired many pups?”

  “Nay, as this will be my first season as a breeder.”

  “I should like to have a daughter,” she said, “so I can keep her with me.”

  Nics were born with legs and remained above the waves with their mothers, who prepared them for their role in the cycle of life. Macs, born with tails, were returned to the sea and the clan to be raised as warriors.

  “If you should,” he said, “you must promise to name her Muriel, after my mother.”

  He asked this not out of sentiment, but out of the desire to avoid breeding with his own spawnlings. Although such couplings were not uncommon among his kind, he found the notion distasteful for some reason.

  “Is your mother still alive?” Meredith asked him.

  “Nay,” he said. “She died the night of my birth.”

  He chose not to explain how, in a jealous rage, her human husband threw the both of them from a high sea cliff. His mother’s body smashed on the beach below while his became wedged between two rocks. His natural sire found him the next morning and took him to Tír fo Thuinn.

  “I’m sorry.” Meredith offered him a sympathetic smile.

  “No matter,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I could not have known her in any case.”

  In the time that followed, they spawned often, spent hours just holding each other and talking, and t
ook long walks on the beach. He retrieved his cleasaiche from the cave where he’d undergone his transformation and played for her and sang the songs of his clan.

  He’d been happy with Meredith and remarkably at peace—sensations he hadn’t known since he lost his father. When it came time to leave her behind, he found it remarkably hard, but still went. The sea was his home, his world. He would never give it up, never risk the shame of exile, especially for the sake of a female. Not that she’d asked him to. Though she cared for him, too, they both knew what had to be and the cost of disrupting the natural order of things.

  Casting aside the past, Cuan spewed a sigh of bubbles and opened his eyes. Thinking of her, even after all this time, still made him feel like an oyster robbed of its pearl. Why had he grown so attached? What was wrong with him? Why did he prefer an inferior Nic to Shan, who wanted to be his blood brother?

  “Kiss me,” he would whisper in the dark, and Cuan would do as his friend bade, feeling all the while like a hermit crab in a borrowed shell. How could he agree to be Shan’s lifelong partner when his heart yearned for something else? Something he couldn’t name that called to him from somewhere out there like the song of a siren.

  Cuan shook his head in self-disgust. This was hardly the time for self-reflection. Not when there were more pressing matters at hand—namely Ketos and the dream. He knew what he had to do. If the dream turned out to be a warning, he would return and alert the others. Not that there was much they could do beyond relocating to safer waters. All the same, he’d have no peace until he knew if the dream was only a dream or something much more threatening to the inhabitants of the Minch.