Lord of the Deep (15 page)

Meg said no more. Vega might not trust her, but she trusted him to stand guard. Exhausted, she climbed onto the opulent bed just as she was—cloak and all—and let sleep take her. At first the dreams were fitful and strange; dark, heart-wrenching visions of the burning forest on Shamans’ Mount, of the revelers, and of the towering waves flinging spindrift over the high stone wall that hemmed in the temple fortress all around.

Time meant nothing in that troubled dream state. Exactly how long it was before she experienced the feeling of floating in pleasantly warm water, she had no idea. At first the skirt of her kirtle was billowed about her like a balloon. Then it was gone altogether; so was her cloak. The echo of water dripping into the water around her made a pleasant sound. Someone was holding her. How strong his arms were. The muscles in his biceps rippled against her. His hot breath puffing on her wet skin raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. His scent ghosted through her nostrils—the tang of salt and the dark, dusky mystery of musky ambergris, sensuous and evocative.

Simeon!

Meg’s eyes snapped open. This was no dream, and she threw her arms around his neck and clasped him to her with all her strength.

They were submerged in a rock-lined pool of warm, steamy water, surrounded by water lilies, their heady fragrance enhanced by the warmth of rush candles set about in niches carved into the rock. The reflection of the candle flames danced in the water, writhing in the ripples their motion created as Simeon moved her against him, rasping her mound with the hard, anxious shaft of his erection. Merciless pleasure!

“Where is this place?” she murmured between sharp intakes of breath as he ground the root of his sex into her hardened bud.

“Just another room in the palace,” he said, nipping at her earlobe. “There are many, smaller air pockets beneath the palace proper, little pools like this one honed out of the subterranean caves by time. Some are inhospitable, but this one is closest to the volcanic flow from the Isle of Fire, so it is heated. Let your feet touch the bottom….” Meg hesitated, and he laughed. “I’m holding you,” he said, “Don’t be afraid. It isn’t deep.”

Meg lowered herself gingerly, inch by inch, until her feet touched bottom. Her sex leaped to life as it slid along his rock-hard body, and she undulated against him, relaxing her legs to permit his knee to spread them wide enough for her to straddle his thigh. Her foot touching bottom felt as if a thousand tiny fingers were caressing it. Her posture clenched at the tactile feel of it between her toes.

“Saltwater cress,” Simeon said. “Vega planted it when he created this pool; a delight for the senses, like your grass upon the land. Let it relax you, Megaleen. You need this now, else-wise I would have let you sleep.”

But Meg could not relax, not while his rigid thigh was moving against her feminine flesh, hardening her bud, making her wet inside and out, leaking her juices into the soothing water rippling around them. Was there no end to the delights she could expect in his arms?

His hot mouth found her parted lips and his tongue tasted her deeply, entwining with hers, teasing the sensitive sides of her lips as he moved her against the curved wall of the pool. He’d draped her cloak there to protect the tender flesh of her spine and buttocks as he seized them, raising her up, then higher still, until the velvety ridged head of his penis fetched up against the swollen nether lips at her entrance. He hesitated, his dark shuttered eyes gleaming in the candle glow. Meg drank in his smoldering gaze. The heat of his need blazed in his dilated eyes, in the hardness of his shaft, in the persistence of its head pressing against her slit until the ridged tip alone parted her fissure.

Meg tried to envelope it with the soft flesh of her vulva—tried to seize it and take it deep into her—but he held her just out of reach of her desire until she feared her heart would burst through her breast. Exquisite torture! Then she could bear no more. A primitive groan escaped her throat as she called his name, begging him to fill her. Still he hesitated and she pleaded again. This time, the groan bubbled up in his arched throat as in one deep, shuddering thrust, he spiraled into her. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him as his hands slid down her sides, grazing her breasts, and his thumbs palpated her nipples.

He seized her buttocks again, matching her rhythm. Water rushed into her with each riveting riposte—soothing, steamy water laving her inner walls, surging over her engorged bud, sparking the friction that triggered her release. It came in waves of unstoppable sensation surging through her belly and thighs, thrumming in her veins, rushing to every recess, every erogenous pore of her gooseflesh-pebbled skin. Every inch of her throbbed like a pulse beat—just as it always did in his embrace.

Staring through eyes glazed with passion, Meg watched his own eyes glaze over as he ground himself against her mound, scraping the sensitive bud protruding from her pubic curls as he pounded into her again and again, spiraling in and out of her until her sex was afire, until her pelvis lurched forward seizing his erection as she climaxed again. This time he climaxed with her in mindless oblivion, the pulse of his seed filling her and making her orgasm again, until, spent, they clung to each other in the curve of the rocky wall of the pool—until their hot joined flesh ceased thumping like a heartbeat.

“Promise that you will never leave me,” he murmured huskily, his hot, moist breath ruffling the tendrils framing her face in the steamy atmosphere of the little pool.

Meg crowded closer in his arms. She didn’t answer. How could she, when part of her secretly wanted to steal his sealskin to make him her love slave, and another part—the noble part—was entertaining thoughts of setting him free, for that was what truly was needed to put things to rights. She knew it—Vega knew it—even Simeon himself knew it, if only he wasn’t too blinded by love to see it, and how could he not? He was Lord of the Deep, Prince of the Waves, Ruler of the Arcan seas, steward of the drowned dead—even the dead of the terrible Shamans’ Mount. How could she deny him this? Could she possibly be that cruel? More and more, she was thinking she could not. But how, oh how could she live without him now?

She pulled him closer still and took his lips, anything to prevent him seeing the anguish in her eyes—anything to prevent her from answering that plea.

“H
ow bad is the devastation?” Vega asked Simeon. They were closeted in an antechamber off the master suite while Meg made herself presentable for their visit to the Waterwitch.

Simeon heaved a mammoth sigh as he paced the length of an Oriental rug that nearly covered the floor completely; just one of the many gifts of the sea over time. “The storm still rages,” he replied.

“And the dead?”

“There are many, Vega. I did what could be done. It is up to the gods now to sort the righteous from the heathen. It is not for me to judge, my brother, only to say the words and give the blessing that will lead them home.”

“And the Mount? Has it sunk beneath the waves?”

Simeon shook his head. “Much of it has, but not all,” he replied. “The temple and tower have crumbled to rubble with all in them dead, as did the forest and much of the wall that surrounds the isle….”

“And Seth?” Vega prompted as Simeon’s words trailed off.

“He was not among the dead,” he replied, almost sorrowfully.

“Is the Mount inhabitable?” Vega asked him.

“Will it sustain life, do you mean? I think not,” Simeon said. “All that remained the last time I saw it was the rock pool, the scrying pool, and a mere spit of land where the clearing used to be. There is no shelter left upon the Mount and no protection with the wall at the bottom of the bay.”

“You are certain about Seth?”

“I’m certain.”

“He will seek to revenge himself, Simeon.”

“I know, but he is not my priority now. I’m taking Megaleen to the Waterwitch. To see what can be done about her breathing under water.”

“Simeon, you dream!”

“Then let me dream!” Simeon snapped. “There has to be something.”

“Possibly there is, but what of immortality? There is nothing for that. She will age and she will wither and die before your eyes, while you will live on unchanged—just as you are now—until the end of days. That is inevitable. Is that fair to you—or her?”

Simeon reached him in two great strides. Fisting his hand in the front of Vega’s eel skin, he yanked him close to his rage. “Do not moralize with me,” he seethed. “You do not like her. I can see it—I can
feel
it!”

“That isn’t so,” Vega defended. “If truth were to be told, I like her far too much, if you must know, but it’s you I’m thinking of. How could you bear to watch her age while you stay young and vital? It would break my heart to watch it happen, Simeon.”

“Then you had best pray the Waterwitch comes up with a solution, because we both know what the alternative is.” He let Vega go with a rough thrust. “I would rather live and die in mortal years with her than wander through eternity without her. I am in deadly earnest.”

The Waterwitch’s cave was one of many beneath the waves, where air pockets occurring in the rock and coral formations made breathing possible, like the heated pool beneath the underwater palace. It was, however, not part of the palace complex. It was dangerously close to the mainland at the tip of the barrier beach that edged it.

The storm still raged. The mainland had not escaped its fury. Meg was reluctant when Simeon summoned Elicorn. She did not trust the waterhorse and never would again. The fickle creature would have drowned Simeon in his vulnerable state when he’d lost his sealskin. She would never understand the ways of waterhorses. But one thing was certain: she would never permit herself to be beguiled again.

Still, there was something very sensuous about riding the waves astride the beast. The tactile feel of its sleek white hide scraping against the tender flesh on the inside of her thighs heated her blood. Especially since the bulk of Simeon’s genitals straining his eel skin suit was rubbing up against the fissure between her bare buttocks as the merciless horse galloped against the wind, skimming the white-capped combers. Simeon had disposed of the kirtle she’d been wearing, wanting nothing from Seth’s domain to touch her skin, and replaced it with a fetching muslin round gown in a soft shade of peach. It was obviously a gift of the sea in a previous storm, as were the other gowns he offered her. Due to the proportions of the skirt, however, it did not lend itself well to riding astride, hence the exposed rounds of her behind. The gown was hoisted up about her waist, and in their haste to reach the Waterwitch’s cave before dark, she had forgotten to collect a wrapper. It wasn’t really an oversight. The weather was warm despite the storm, and since they would be traveling above and below the waves, a cloak hardly seemed necessary.

“Are you cold?” Simeon said, as though he’d tapped into her train of thought.

“No,” she murmured. She was trembling but not from cold. It was hardly that simple. Strands of Elicorn’s mane had been plaited into a bridle affair, which Simeon gripped with both hands to direct the horse. Meg held on to it, too. In this position, Simeon’s forearms grazed the sides of her breasts, which had grown heavy—aching for his hands to palm them, straining so those rock-hard forearms would graze her nipples. Arousal threatened. Anticipation heated her blood until it pounded in her ears. No, she wasn’t cold. She doubted she would ever be cold again.

“I fear the Waterwitch’s counsel,” she confessed. “What if she cannot help us?”

“One witch fear another?” Simeon erupted. “You must not be afraid of her magic. It is of great benefit to all of us beneath the waves. It is true she has her dark side, I shan’t deny it, but she is Queen of the White Water Sidhe, noblest of all the oracles of the deep. She tells us when the worldly storms will come and when to harvest our cress and kelp crops. She foretells the future and casts the spells that ward off danger. She heals our sick and keeps the Scroll of Arcan Rite.”

“The ‘Scroll of Arcan Rite’?” Meg queried. There was so much she needed to learn about Simeon’s water world.

“The history of the deep,” Simeon said. “Every truth ever uttered by the gods to those they deem stewards of the word is recorded in the Scroll of Arcan Rite. It is a sacred tome invested to her keeping by the gods themselves.”

“Shouldn’t you be the one to have custody of such a venerable tome?”

“Vega thinks so, but the Waterwitch predates me. Some say she is a goddess in her own right. I do not know if that is so, but I do know of her magic. I respect it, I am in awe of it, but I do not fear it and neither should you.”

“But you are a selkie, and I am—”

“You are my mate,” he interrupted her. “Have you so soon forgotten that the ancient one in the tree has wed us—joined us for life?”

Meg almost had forgotten. Why did that rock her soul with sorrows? Could it be because, for all that she loved him with a passion beyond her wildest dreams and comprehension, she had nearly convinced herself that the only solution for them was for her to leave him to the only world he ever knew and loved…the deep? Never had she been more convinced of it than now, delving into the mystical aspect of his domain. It made her piddling claim to witchcraft almost laughable.

“You nearly lost your life,” she reminded him.

“But you have given it back to me in the person of my sealskin, for it is a person, just as I am a person. It is part of me—a living breathing part that I alone must possess in order to live.”

Meg swallowed dryly. “And where is it now?” she mewed. It was a question she had to ask. Her humanity demanded it. What she would do with the knowledge was another matter. This, she had to know.

Simeon hesitated. “Vega keeps my sealskin when I am beneath the waves,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I do not wish to go through that again!” she snapped a little too quickly. Did he notice? She hoped not, but feared so. It was time to change the subject. “What has become of Seth?” she said. “Was he among the drowned dead you blessed? That would be sacrilege and nothing short of hypocritical, I’m thinking.”

“No, he was not.”

“Then we are not safe. He will hunt us down until he’s killed us both, Simeon. Should we not be concentrating upon that?” It was hard to concentrate upon anything with the thick, hard pressure of Simeon’s erection biting into the crease of her buttocks.

The rain had ceased falling, though the wind was merciless and the seas were running high. Simeon reined Elicorn in with a tug of the animal’s plaited mane and turned her face toward him.

“Do not sell me short,” he said. “I bested and outwitted Seth twice. How he escaped the devastation on the Mount, I do not know. He was in his cups—dazed from those blows to the head—and I was too preoccupied with you to care. He could be anywhere. But if he comes into my domain after what he has done, he will never leave it alive.”

Simeon’s voice crackled with gritty passion that rumbled up from the depths of him. It sent gooseflesh racing the length of Meg’s spine. There was no doubt he meant every word. The hard-muscled span of his broad chest and flexed biceps rippled against her, and she said no more.

They continued on in brooding silence. She could not read his thoughts, and she hoped he couldn’t read hers. They had nearly reached the barrier beach when he breathed into her nostrils and took her beneath the waves. This time Meg didn’t close her eyes. The coral reef was a breathtaking sight, with its niches, pools, and underwater caves, much the same as Simeon’s palace, though the caves were smaller. White and pink coral formed the cave of the Waterwitch. Simeon left Elicorn at the bowerlike entrance beside a pool filled with night lilies, commanding him to stay. The waterhorse seemed content to obey, though Meg didn’t miss the seductive twinkle in Elicorn’s eye. She couldn’t help but wonder if a waterhorse could be tamed and brought to submission by its master. Whether it could or it couldn’t, she would be leery of such creatures as long as she lived.

The air pocket allowed Meg to breath naturally as Simeon led her deeply in to the Waterwitch’s inner sanctum. She wasn’t prepared for the opulence. Many of the sea’s gifts had obviously made their way to the Oracle’s domain. The walls of the cave were spangled with precious contraband and gold and silver coins glittered from niches in the coral, as if an unseen hand had flung them there. Couches draped with sumptuous furs and cloth of gold defined the perimeter, but a cubicle deeper in behind a curtain of aquatic vines was sparsely furnished and darker. Only one small rush candle lit the area. It connected to a little pool sunken in the rock.

Meg glanced about. The cave was empty. “No one is here,” she said.

Simeon smiled. Throwing back his head, he loosed a guttural bark that mellowed into the hum of a mantra not unlike the one he’d hummed to bring the waterhorse on the beach.

“Stand back,” he said. Taking her arm, he eased her away from the edge of the pool as the water began to tremble. The vibrations grew stronger, until the whole surface of the pool was atremble with undulant motion.

Meg gasped. Gripping Simeon’s arm she crowded close to him as the ripples parted and a creature broke the surface of the water. At first appearance it was hideous, with the head of the ugliest fish Meg had ever seen and a body covered with scales, though it looked human. Meg blinked, and the fish’s head transformed into that of an old woman, whose diaphanous gray hair floated about her like a cloud. Oddly, it was dry after coming from the water. It reminded her of Adelia’s hair, and she took another step back as the creature climbed out of the pool with the aid of steps carved in the rock under the surface of the water.

The Waterwitch was graceful despite her age, her naked body beneath the scales like that of a woman no older than Meg herself. She made no move toward modesty. Snatching a glittering, transparent cloak from a nearby bench, she tossed it over her shoulders with flourish, hiding nothing, and took her place in an elaborate chair upon what appeared to be a small dais. It was fitted with a canelike scepter capped with a scrying ball, which she lifted from its bracket and leaned on, fingering the clouded crystal. Meg noticed that both the woman’s hands and feet were webbed.

“Elna,” Simeon greeted, sketching a graceful bow from the waist. “We have come to seek your counsel.”

The Waterwitch offered a nod that bespoke royalty and gazed first at him through shuttered eyes, then turned her gaze upon Meg but said nothing.

“We want—”

The Waterwitch stayed his tongue with a raised hand gesture. “I know what you want, impetuous one,” she said. How dared the woman speak to Simeon thus? He was the sovereign, wasn’t he? “Wait without.”

It was an unequivocal command, and Simeon bowed again, cast Meg a reassuring glance, and backed through the aquatic vine curtain into what Meg took to be the parlor they had entered through. The woman had not taken her eyes from her since Simeon left them, nor had she spoken. Was this a tactic on the witch’s part to wear her down—to make her prove herself unworthy of the Lord of the Deep? If it was, they were in for a long siege.

Meg squared her posture and stood, spine rigid, facing the Waterwitch’s cool glare. There was a strange iridescent glow about the woman’s eyes that reminded Meg of the eyes of a cat. Curious, since it was evident she was more fish than feline or human. After a moment, she raised one webbed finger and pointed to a Glastonbury chair in the shadows that Meg hadn’t noticed before.

“Sit,” the woman said.

Meg sketched a bow and took her seat.

“You do not fear me,” the Waterwitch marveled.

“Not you, no,” Meg said. “I fear only that you cannot help us.”

“Um,” the other hummed. “You are a witch in your own right, I have heard. How is it you cannot work your own magic?”

“I do not know that I am a witch,” Meg said. “Others say it of me. I have yet to prove it is true.”

“You have bewitched Simeon!”

“I am in love with Simeon.”

“Is that practical…you a mortal, and he a selkie and Lord of the Deep? What can come from such a union but disaster and heartache?”

“We are already joined.”

The woman’s eyebrow lifted. “Then you have no need of me.”

“But I do,” Meg insisted. “I cannot breathe for long periods beneath the waves. I…We were wondering if you have a remedy.”

“Why do you not ask the real question that brings you here?” the Waterwitch said, her iridescent eyes riveting. “The question of
immortality
.”