Sea Witch (10 page)

Easy, Caleb told himself. She had been poked and prodded and

pressured enough.

He shrugged. “Then I’d skip the pictures, and you’d have a real

interesting scar there on your forehead.”

“Scars are a sign of strength. Of survival.”

She wasn’t serious. Or maybe she was. Memory stirred in his mind

and in his heart. She hadn’t freaked out at the sight of the purple waffle

weave on his leg.

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“Mostly scars are a sign you got caught in the wrong place at the

wrong time,” he said. “Let the doctor do her thing, and if you’re good,

maybe she’ll give you a Wonder Woman Band-Aid.”

Maggie narrowed her eyes. “Wonder Woman.”

He smiled. “You want to hold out for SpongeBob, fine. But that’s

my final offer.”

Donna sniffed. “If you two are done playing doctor, I’ll finish here,

and she’ll be free to go.”

“Right. Thanks,” Caleb said.

Maggie pulled her paper gown tightly closed. "Go where?”

* * * *

He woke on the floor of an empty room in front of a dead fire.

The smell of ashes drifted from the grate and coated his tongue. Pain

pulsed in his temples and flashed in his head. His body felt pounded,

pummeled, as if he’d been in a fight, as if his internal organs, lungs and

liver and spleen, had been worked over, rearranged, pushed aside to

accommodate something alien.

Like the mother of all hangovers.

He had been sitting staring into the flames, sipping a fifteen-year-old

single malt Laphroaig. The smoky sweet aftertaste lingered, roiling his

stomach and burning the back of his throat. He could see his empty shot

glass on the carpet a few yards away.

He must have drunk more than he thought.

He pushed with his arms and levered himself to his knees. Spots

danced, black and bright, before his eyes. His stomach lurched. He

swayed on all fours, head hanging, taking deep breaths in and out. In.

And out.

When he had control again, he crawled to the glass. Mustn’t leave it

on the floor. Mustn’t let anyone see. He reached for it, his hand shaking.

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Stared, puzzled, at the dark smear on his cuff. Too dark for whiskey, too

deep for soot . . .

Blood?

Shock cleared his brain.

Had he hurt himself when he fell? Was that why his memory was

fuzzy, his head throbbed?

He staggered to his feet, heart tripping in panic.

The harsh light of the bathroom made him reel. Gripping the cool

porcelain sink for support, he inspected himself in the mirror. He looked .

. . fine. All right, not fine. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his

face the color of the ashes in the grate. But he wasn’t injured. The

blood—if it was blood—wasn’t his.

He held his shaking hand under the faucet. Water soaked his cuff

and ran red into the sink. The stain spread, pink against white.

Oh, God.

What had happened? Why couldn’t he remember?

His throat was dry. He swallowed two Excedrin with a glass of

water. Two glasses of water. Despite the churning in his stomach, he was

almost unbearably thirsty. Dehydrated. He splashed his face with

trembling hands. Water dripped on his shirt as he stared at his reflection.

His eyes . . .

Something lurked at the edges of his vision or in the corners of his

eyes. Like flames licking a hole through paper. Like a face flickering at

the window of an empty house.

The hair rose on his arms.

He cursed. He was
fine
.

He snapped off the light, plunging the bathroom into darkness.

Stripping off his clothes, he stumbled to bed.

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* * * *

Margred leaned her head against the back of her seat and closed her

eyes. Caleb had left her in the Jeep outside the Inn with the instruction to

wait for him. She might as well obey. She didn’t think she could move if

she tried.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care what happened to her anymore. She

cared desperately. But like a sea bird tangled in fishing line, she did not

see any way to affect the outcome. Her struggles merely exhausted her.

Sapped by fatigue and shock, she was reaching the limits of her puny

human strength, increasingly, blessedly numb.

Or almost numb. When Caleb opened the door on the driver’s side,

she felt a warming little flicker of . . . relief? Recognition?

He frowned. “Are you all right?”

He meant to be kind, she reminded herself. “Just tired.”

Tired of his questions. Tired of being urged to remember what she

pretended to forget. Preferred to forget.

The smell, the demon smell, neither human nor mer nor angel nor

sidhe.

The hunger.

The pain.

She wanted to forget. But the blurring of memory she accepted as a

mercy, Caleb regarded as an obstacle. He wanted the truth.

Only she knew he could not handle it.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that . . . We’ve run into a little

problem.”

Her poor, weary heart jumped into her throat.

A
little
problem?

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Smaller than, say, being attacked out of the dark by a demon? Than

having her identity and immortality stripped from her with her pelt? Than

being hit over the head and left to age and die?

“What kind of a problem?” she asked.

“There’s no room at the Inn.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“They’re full up,” he explained. “I was afraid they might be. They

only have nine guest rooms, and with the season starting...”

She struggled to process what he was saying. “I need a place to

shelter. At least for the night.”

Her caves . . . But she could not reach her caves in her current

condition. In her human shape.

“Not a problem,” Caleb said. “I’ll take you home—to my father’s

house. My sister can put you up for the night. You shouldn’t be alone

anyway.”

“I won’t be alone. I can stay with you.”

His mouth tightened. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I only have one bedroom.”

She did not see the problem. “You have a bed.”

“I won’t take advantage of you that way. I can bunk on the couch for

a couple of nights, but it’s not a solution. Not a long-term solution.”

“I cannot think about long-term right now,” Margred snapped.

Silence.

“You’ll like my sister Lucy,” Caleb said at last. “Every-body does.

And she could loan you some clothes.”

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The clothes decided her.

Or maybe it was his unassailable kindness. His determination to do

the right thing.

Margred glanced at the covering the doctor had provided, a loose

turquoise smock and pants decorated all over with pink dancing bears.

“As long as they don’t have bears on them.”

Caleb’s face relaxed. “No bears,” he promised, and started the Jeep.

* * * *

Lucy was dreaming when the phone rang. Not the usual dreams of

drowning or being chased by red-eyed monsters. She dreamed about her

mother. Her mother, singing. And her mother’s songs whispered and

echoed in her head like the ebbing tide.

Lucy didn’t remember her mother. She hadn’t dreamed about her for

a long time, even though when she was little— six or seven—those were

her favorite dreams, the ones she pulled out and played with during the

day. They were all pretty much the same. One night the phone would ring

or a knock would sound on the door, and when Lucy woke the next

morning, her mother would be in the kitchen cooking breakfast, pancakes

with blueberry syrup like Jennifer Logan’s mom or muffins studded with

walnuts and cranberries like Mrs. Barone.

She never told anyone about the dreams. Not Caleb, who always left

her cereal in a bowl and a note on the counter before he took the ferry to

school. Not her father, who left the house hours earlier to haul his traps

and set his lines. Bart Hunter never wanted to hear his daughter’s dreams.

Or a word about her mother.

By the time Lucy started college, the dreams stopped. But sometimes

at night when the phone rang, she felt her heart leap and then hurry in a

childish, hopeful beat:
What-if, what-if, what-if . . .

Usually, the caller had simply dialed the wrong number. Tonight,

though, Caleb was on the other end of the line, and he wanted her help.

Or rather, one of his cases did, some poor woman, homeless and hurt,

who had been assaulted on the beach.

Caleb had always been chivalrous, kind to underdogs and strays.

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“I hate to bother you,” he said. “You still keep a key on the porch?”

“Under the lobster buoy, same as always. But I don’t mind getting

up to let you in.” She was flattered that for once Caleb was asking for her

help instead of riding to her rescue. Flattered and happy.

Or she would be if she weren’t so groggy.

She scrambled out of bed, pulling her University of Maine at

Machias sweatshirt on over her LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE, TEACH T-shirt.

By the time Caleb’s Jeep crunched onto the gravel drive, she had fresh

sheets on one of the upstairs beds and the tea kettle whistling on the

stove. Turning down the gas, she hurried to the door.

Caleb climbed the three steps to the porch, moving slowly, as if he’d

had a long day. Or his leg hurt him. “I appreciate this, Lu.”

She flushed, unused to thanks. “Don’t be silly. This is your house,

too.”

Caleb grunted. “Dad still up?”

“No, he . . . he was sleeping in his chair when I got home.” She

glanced over her shoulder at the empty living room. “He must have taken

himself up to bed.”

“Drunk?” Caleb asked.

“Sleeping,” Lucy repeated firmly. She didn’t want to make trouble,

any more trouble, between her father and her brother.

“He could have come tonight. To your end-of-year program. ”

“I didn’t expect him to.”

Caleb snorted. “You should. He—”

The Jeep door opened and a woman stepped down onto the gravel. A

young woman—well, youngish—and medium tall, with wide, dark eyes

and waving dark hair and skin as pale and perfect as the inside of a shell.

Lucy’s jaw dropped.
This
was Caleb’s stray?

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She glided toward the house with a graceful assurance that fit her

better than the wrinkled pediatric scrubs she wore. Despite the police

windbreaker around her shoulders and the stark white bandage on her

head, she looked sophisticated, confident, exotic. Like a movie star in

Africa.

“This is Maggie,” Caleb said matter-of-factly. Lucy wondered if her

brother was even aware of the warmth in his eyes, the subtle

possessiveness of his hand at the woman’s waist as he guided her up the

last step. “Maggie, my sister, Lucy.”

Lucy met that wide, dark gaze and heard a roaring in her ears like

the sound of the sea. Everything inside her expanded, squeezing the air

from her lungs. She opened her mouth to breathe.

Confusion flitted across the woman’s face. “Your sister? But...”

Caleb’s expression sharpened. “What is it? Do you recognize each

other?”

The pressure in Lucy’s chest increased. It wasn’t recognition. More

like heartburn. She dragged in a breath and held it the way she had taught

herself to do, until everything inside her was forced back into its proper

place.

“N-no,” the woman said slowly. “I just— For a moment, I thought . .

. It’s nothing.”

Lucy breathed again. “Would you like some tea?”

“No. I am tired. I would like to sleep.”

She could have said thank you, Lucy thought. “I’ll show you to your

room, then.”

“I’ll do it.” Caleb touched her arm briefly. “You go make us tea. I’ll

join you in the kitchen after I get Maggie settled.”

Lucy smiled with amusement and a touch of wistfulness. Settled?

What was her brother planning to do? Read her a story and kiss her good

night?

But of course, she didn’t tease him.

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“The bed’s already made up,” she said. “Good night.”

The humans’ house was dark and cramped and smelled of earth and

must, of cooked food and worked metal. It was both alien and ordinary,

with no hint or sign of the amazing burst of power that had punched

Margred on the threshold.

“What was that about?” Caleb asked as he followed her down the

hall.

“I’m not sure.” Margred struggled for an explanation that would

satisfy them both. “Perhaps, as you said, I have met your sister before.”

“And both of you have forgotten all about it,” Caleb said dryly.

She turned to face him. “Do you remember everyone you have met?”