The Selkie Spell (Seal Island Trilogy) (9 page)

She grabbed the first cookbook she could find, started gathering ingredients and pouring them into the pan.  The image of her husband’s face seared the backs of her eyes, but she pushed it away, focusing on the recipe. 
She was stronger than this.  She was stronger than him.
  The scent of cinnamon and melting butter drifted up through the floorboards, and Dominic woke to the sound of footsteps moving around downstairs.

Sitting up, Dominic untangled his legs from the sheets.  Shaking off the memory of a strange dream of a rose bush whose flowers had all died and in place of thorns its branches grew long sharp knives, he pushed to his feet and pulled on a pair of jeans.  When he reached the first floor, the overpowering fragrance of roses collided with the sugary scents from the kitchen and he fought the sudden spell of dizziness, pushing open the door and staring when he spotted Tara at the stove.

Tara turned when she heard the door open.  She watched Dominic rub his eyes, trying to focus.  His hair was mussed and his eyes were still bleary from sleep.  The shadow of stubble along his jaw had grown darker and thicker, making the rugged planes of his face look even more dangerous.  His chest was bare, revealing the strong, well-defined muscles of his chest and arms.  And when her gaze drifted down that hard, muscular stomach to where his jeans slung low across his narrow hips, she dropped her spoon into a saucepan of boiling butter.  The hot liquid splashed her fingers as she backed away, untying the apron from around her waist.  “I shouldn’t be here.  I shouldn’t have come.”

When he took a step toward her, Tara reached blindly for the rolling pin.  Her knuckles went white on the handle where she hid it behind her back.

A strange, painful twist in his gut had Dominic crossing the room to her, struggling for air over the smell of the roses.  And when she looked at him with those big green eyes, he felt like he was falling, like the whole world was closing in around him.  They were only inches apart.  He could feel the heat from her.  Smell the dizzying scent of the roses mixed with her own sweet scent.  He reached out, brushing a sprinkling of flour from her cheek.

She braced when his hand stayed on her cheek.  But instead of the memories this time, instead of the heartache and the pain, something different coursed through her.  It came fast and hard like lightning.  The rolling pin fell from her hands, clattering to the floor.  She tried to step away, to break the connection, but her legs wouldn’t move.

Dominic felt something pulling him down, a force so strong it felt like it was sucking him into the ocean, and when he drew his hand back, a strange tingling sensation shot through his fingers.  He glanced down at his hand, saw that the tips of his fingers were singed and steam rose off the marked skin.  He turned his hand over slowly.  “What is this?”

Reaching for the counter, Tara tested her legs and when she found that they could move, she took a step back.  She made herself look at him, made herself meet those intense gray eyes and her pulse hammered, knocking against her throat.

The pop and splatter of the butter boiling over on the stove snapped Dominic back to reality.  He went to the knob, switched off the gas and, when he turned, it was like seeing her for the first time.  She was wearing her sweater inside-out.  Her hair was tangled.  There were pillow marks pressed into her face and she was standing in the middle of the kitchen in only her socks.

But the absurdity of finding her here in the middle of the night in her pajamas fell flat when he saw the look in her eyes, the same look that he’d seen in his mother’s eyes every time she’d looked at his father.

“Tara,” Dominic took a step toward her.

Tara opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out and she felt like she was falling off a high, high cliff.  Backing away from him, Tara reached for the door.  “I— I have to go,” she stammered, fighting to keep her voice steady, fighting to keep her knees from giving out.  She spun on her heels and pushed out of the kitchen, leaving Dominic to stare at the door as it slapped back in place, causing a rain of rose petals to flutter to the ground.

***

Dominic bided his time.  He stayed out of the kitchen when he came down to greet the first customer and tried to ignore the sickening scent of the roses Tara had arranged in vases throughout the barroom.  But it was impossible to ignore them when it was the one thing on everyone’s mind.

“So this is where that smell’s coming from,” Margaret Connelly said, picking up a vase and studying the rich, dark color of the petals.  “Rory said he smelled them all the way over to the bogs this morning on his walk.”

“I ran into Brennan a few minutes ago,” Sarah Dooley added.  “He said he couldn’t sleep last night.  Kept dreaming about getting trapped in a hedge of roses.”

“I thought I smelled something funny down at the docks this morning,” Donal piped in, rubbing his thumb over one of the stems and jerking back when it pricked him.

Dominic grabbed the vase, dumped the entire thing in the trash.

“Did you order them from the mainland?” Maggie asked.

“No.”

“Then where did they come from?”

“Tara’s house,” Sarah answered.  “She fixed up a brew for Brennan yesterday.  Said it’d help him with his arthritis.  He said it did.  But he’s not sure how he feels about having those nightmares as a side effect.”

Dominic thought of his own dream, of the thorns like glistening knives.  He yanked another vase off the bar and threw it into the trash.

Maggie watched Dominic reach for another vase.  “If they came from Tara’s garden, then that means they’re growing up at your cottage.  Did you plant them?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, tightly.

“How odd,” Maggie murmured, turning a flower over in her hand.

“Alright,” Dominic said, pushing back from the bar.  “I’ve heard enough.”  Turning, he marched into the kitchen and scanned the room.  “Where’s Tara?”

“She just went back to her cottage to grab a cookbook,” Caitlin answered.  “Why?”

“I need to talk to her,” Dominic said, striding out the back door and up the path to her cottage.  Sunlight slid in slices over the mossy blanket of lime, emerald, and evergreen, changing color every time a cloud passed under the sun.  Sheep grazed on the hillsides.  Stone walls cut through the fields.  The ocean glistened and danced, curling in turquoise waves over the white shoreline.

But it was the cottage that had his eyes going wide as he climbed the final hill.  Scarlet roses swallowed the white walls, curling high enough to tangle with the thatch on the roof, climbing around the sides of the house.

Walking slowly the rest of the way up to the cottage, he snapped off a ruby red flower, and held it up to his nose.  When the air cracked and snapped, he saw Tara open the door to the cottage and he took a step toward her, but then stopped when his feet turned to lead and the flower fell from his hand.

The woman who walked out of the house had Tara’s face, and the same dark hair, but it fell in rich waves down to her waist.  She had the same emerald eyes but they were filled with a deep shattering sadness.  Her skin was so pale he could almost see through it.  And something inside him told him that when he tried to touch her, there’d be nothing there.

As Dominic continued to look at her, a heart-wrenching grief settled deep in his bones.  He tried to tear his eyes away, but couldn’t.  And when the woman reached out and plucked a rose from the vine, Dominic saw the thin webbing between each finger.  He saw the seaweed that snaked up her forearms, like chains, and the silvery minnows that flopped over the earth by her feet, gasping for the seawater that dripped from her sleeves.

Her slender fingers reached out, plucking another rose from the vine.  And as the petals dried and cracked and turned black in her hand, Dominic watched as she turned her palm over, and the ashes fell to the ground, scorching the wet earth at her feet.

In the steam that rose from the ashes Dominic watched an image form.  Tara’s limp, lifeless body lay face-down on the sand, the surf crashing over her broken, twisted limbs.  He watched himself run across the beach, hauling her from the water.  But when he turned her over, cradling her in his arms, sick black bruises circled her neck.  Tearing his eyes from the vision, he looked back at where the woman had been standing.  But all that was left of the selkie was a puddle of seawater and a dozen dead minnows floating on the surface.

***

Caitlin looked up from the sink when Tara walked back into the kitchen.  “Did you see Dominic?”

“No.”

“That’s odd,” she said.  “He went to your house looking for you.”

Tara’s gaze snapped up to Caitlin’s.  “Why?  What did he want?”

“I don’t know,” Caitlin said, taking in Tara’s suddenly pale face.  “Are you okay?”

Tara nodded, but her hands shook as she slid the apron over her head.

“You don’t look so good,” Caitlin said, turning to face her.

“I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you sit down for a minute?  Get off your feet?”

Tara shook her head, reaching for a potato peeler.  “It’ll pass.”

Caitlin watched Tara slice into the potato, narrowly missing her finger and walking over, she pried the sharp instrument from Tara’s hand and laid it on the counter.  “Sit,” she ordered, pushing her toward the chair.

Tara sank into it, dropping her head into her hands.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.  I just need a minute.  I’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you go home and rest?  I can finish up here.  Maybe you just need a little time off.”

“No.”  Tara shook her head.  “I just need to sit for a minute.”

“You’ve been working around the clock for three days now.”

Tara lifted her head.  “I’m used to working hard.”

“But you’re trying to learn a new skill, one that doesn’t come naturally to you.”

“I can handle it.”

“I’m not saying you can’t, but we all need a break from time to time.  To give our bodies and minds a rest so we can start fresh.”

“I don’t need a break, Caitlin.  I just need a second to clear my head.”

Concerned, Caitlin knelt beside her.  “Are you sleeping okay?”

Tara nodded.

Caitlin studied the other woman’s haunted eyes.  “Is it Dominic, then?”

Dominic.
  Tara’s mouth went dry.  She grabbed a bag of frozen peas from the counter and slapped it onto the back of her neck.

Caitlin’s eyes went wide when she saw the steam rising off Tara’s skin.  “You’re burning up.”

“I know,” Tara scooped a handful of ice from her glass and rubbed it up and down her arms, trying to cool the heat sizzling through her veins.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Are you getting sick?”

“I don’t know,” Tara pushed to her feet, walked to the sink and splashed cold water over her face.  “I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Do you think…?”  Caitlin trailed off as the door to the pub swung open and muffled voices drifted in from the barroom.  She watched Tara’s head jerk toward the sound of Dominic’s voice and his heavy footsteps echoing up the stairs.

She took in the strange pink steam rising off Tara’s skin.  The scent of roses and saltwater radiated off her in waves.  “It’s him,” Caitlin marveled.  “It’s Dominic, isn’t it?”

Tara shook her head. 
No.  This wasn’t happening.  This couldn’t be happening.

“Did something happen between you?”

“No.”

“Then…what?  Is it something else?  Some
one
else?”  Glenna’s words pushed their way into Caitlin’s mind. 
‘Someone hurt her, Caitlin.  And he’s after her.  What do you think she’s doing here?’
  Taking a deep breath, Caitlin stood and walked over to the sink.  She laid a comforting hand on Tara’s shoulder.  “Did someone hurt you, Tara?”

The backhand came fast and hard and out of nowhere.  Sydney’s head snapped back and she reached for the chair to get her balance.  Philip kicked it out from under her and she fell, splitting her lip on the hard, mahogany wood of the table.

“I saw you with Dr. Morris today, Sydney.”

Cupping her hand over her mouth to catch the blood, she shook her head, scrambling away from him.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh?”  Fisting a rough hand in her hair, he yanked her head up.  “You don’t remember talking to Dr. Morris?”

Blood dripped down her chin and Sydney struggled to remember.  “The oncologist?” she said in a thin voice, her breathing shallow as her fingers dug into the white carpet.

“That’s the one,” Philip said, pleasantly.  He smashed the back of his hand into her face.

She cried out, but he grabbed another fistful of hair and yanked her face back to his.  “Did you enjoy your talk?”

“It was about a patient,” she whispered, her voice shaking and her eyes following the hand that slid onto the table.

“What did you talk about, Sydney?”