Sea Lord (14 page)

then, only to learn as the years passed that her life would never be all right.

When she was nine, Caleb went away to college. “
Be good,
” he’d said. “
Take care of yourself and

Dad.
” So she had, while the dreams came back, worse than before. She could pretend to control them,

put them off with bedtime reading or hot milk or sex, but she’d never completely outgrown them.

Alone before the empty fire, she hugged her elbows. So what? Everybody had bad dreams. She wasn’t

that little girl anymore, crying for her mother.

Conn called her the daughter of Atargatis. But she was more. She was Caleb Hunter’s sister, New

England born and bred of hardy Yankee stock. Stubborn as the beach roses that bloomed along the

cliffs, tenacious as the goldenrod that sprang among the rocks. She had endured island winters when the

pipes froze and the harbor froze and the ice ran like a waterfall down the porch steps and had to be

hacked with an axe. She had struggled to adulthood in a house haunted by her mother’s ghost and the

specter of her father’s drinking.

“
You are stronger than either of us imagined,
” Conn had said.

Maybe.

Yes.

She released a shuddery sigh. Time to start acting like it, then. She could begin by getting dressed.

Something in that wardrobe had to fit her.

She approached the tall wardrobe. Beauty at the castle of the Beast. Too bad there were no friendly

spirits, no motherly teapots, to pick out something for her to wear.

Madadh raised his head; pricked his ears.

Something bumped and clattered below.

“Bollocks!” cried a voice on the stairs.

Lucy jumped, pressing a hand to her mouth.

“Watch it! You nearly took my fingers off.” A second voice, young, male, aggrieved.

“Well, if you weren’t so fucking clumsy—”

“Shh. She will hear us.”

The hound gave a soft woof and lurched to its feet, its big paws scrabbling on the stone floor.

“I can hear you now,” Lucy said.

Silence.

And then a scrape. A thump.

“Ma’am?” The voice cracked. A boy’s voice, she thought.

“I . . . Yes?” she called.

“We cannot pass the dog.”

Obviously not. Madadh guarded the doorway, shoulders hunched, head lowered, tail stirring from side to

Page 48

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

side. Good sign? Bad sign? She had never had a dog.

“Um. Madadh,” Lucy said, feeling foolish. “Here, boy.”

Would it obey?

She forced more authority into her voice. “Madadh,
come
.”

The hound’s narrow, bearded head swung in her direction. Slowly, slowly, the tall hips and long body

followed. Padding to her side, Madadh sat with a thump. The dog’s head came to her elbow.

She clasped her hands tightly at her waist. “You can come in now.”

A grunt, another thump, and a man—a young man’s legs—appeared as he backed over the threshold,

carrying one end of a large trunk. His companion followed, carrying the other. Setting their burden down,

they turned to face her.

Boys
. She released her breath. They were just boys—sixteen? seventeen?—in long white shirts and

ragged shorts, one big and broad with a shock of dark hair and a belligerent expression.

Tough guy
, Lucy thought with a teacher’s instincts and a smothered smile.

His companion was wiry and lean, not quite grown into the strength of his wrists or the size of his feet.

Beneath a mop of blond-streaked hair, his eyes watched her, guarded and golden as the dog’s.

He nudged the trunk with one foot. “Warden said you needed clothes.”

She swallowed. “Yes. Thank you.”

The bigger boy shifted his weight awkwardly. “There’s more.”

“Other clothes. If these do not fit you.” The tawny one frowned in apparent concern. “You are taller than

Miss March.”

“Miss March?” Lucy asked cautiously.

“She was our teacher.”

Was?
“What happened to her?”

“She got old.” A girl spoke from behind the two boys.

Their age
, Lucy thought,
or maybe older
. With girls, it was hard to tell. She had sleek, dark hair the

color of mink and a wide-lipped, sulky mouth.

“She died,” said the big, dark boy.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said.

The girl shrugged, her eyes cool blue and disdainful. “She was human.”

Her casual dismissal chilled Lucy.
She
was human. Did that mean . . .

“Are you a teacher?” asked the tawny-haired boy.

“I . . .” Lucy dragged her scattered thoughts together. “Yes.”

“We don’t need a teacher anymore,” the girl said.

The boy shot her a look. “Speak for yourself.”

“Suck-up,” taunted his companion.

The wiry teen clenched his fists. “Stupid.”

“Fisheyes.”

“Tell me your names,” Lucy said. As if this was the first day of school, the first fight on the playground.

The tough guy scowled, unwilling, maybe, to back down in front of the girl.

“Iestyn,” said the other boy, the one with the strange, pale eyes. “This is Roth.”

The girl tossed her head. “Kera.”

She looked like a model, a girl made up to look like an adult. A beautiful almost adult in a short silk tunic

the color of apricots that left her arms and most of her legs bare. Beside her, Lucy felt like a scarecrow.

She resisted the urge to pull the slicker tighter.

“I’m Lucy.”

“Warden said to call you Miss Hunter.”

She smiled easily, encouragingly. “I think we can drop the ‘Miss.’ I’m not that much older than you.”

For some reason that made the bigger boy laugh.

Iestyn poked him to shut him up. “Warden said anything you want, you can ask us.”

Anything you want . . .
She would have killed for a shower. A long, hot one. But she suspected

enchanted castles didn’t run to indoor plumbing.

Page 49

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“Maybe . . . A fire?” she suggested hopefully.

Iestyn nodded. “We brought wood. And water for your bath.”

“The prince said you would want one,” the girl—Kera—said.

Conn had ordered her a bath.

Something softened in the center of Lucy’s chest. That was thoughtful. It didn’t make up for kidnapping

her, of course, but she could still appreciate the gesture.

Roth came back with a bundle of driftwood and dumped it by the empty fireplace.

Lucy roused. “I can do that.” She nudged Madadh out of the way to kneel on the cold stone hearth.

While she arranged wood and kindling, Kera drifted from the room, delivering an armload of towels

before disappearing again. Iestyn and Roth trudged in and out, dragging in a copper tub big enough to sit

in and buckets of clear, hot water. A faint sulfur smell rose with the steam.

Lucy shivered with cold and anticipation. “Did you have to boil all that?”

Iestyn grinned and leaned down to strike a spark to the fire. “No, there’s a spring deep in the cliffs under

the castle. Where all the elements meet, earth and air, fire and water. But—”

“It’s a bitch of a climb,” Roth said.

“But my lord thought you would appreciate some privacy on your first night,” Iestyn continued.

Roth snickered.

Blood surged in Lucy’s face. They weren’t talking about the bath anymore. Conn’s clothes hung in the

armoire. This was his room. She sat back on her heels, hoping the boys would blame her sudden flush on

the fire. She cleared her throat. “I bet you enjoy that. Having your own hot springs, I mean.”

“Oh, aye,” Roth said darkly. “If you don’t mind demons looking at your butt.”

Iestyn’s bucket slipped, splashing water out of the tub.

Roth jumped back, cursing. “You great wanker!”

“Here.” Lucy got between them with a towel, reassured by their squabbling, glad for something to do.

They were just boys after all.

She mopped up the mess while the fire crackled and the boys trudged in with more buckets and went out

again. Red shadows danced on the hearth. Under the slicker, a line of sweat traced down Lucy’s back.

She glanced from the half full tub to the open door and sighed. She was not getting naked in front of the

boys. Still she was beginning to relax, lulled by the fire and their uncomplicated wrangling, soothed by the

promise of the bath and the possibility of clean clothes.

To pass the time, she opened the trunk.

A long red buttoned cloak lay on top. She lifted it carefully, shaking the scent of lavender from its folds.

Below were neat piles of thin drawers and thick socks, tidy stacks of yellowed shifts and bright shawls,

sturdy dresses of no particular color or style. She looked dubiously at some of the dresses. The waists

were so tiny, the shoulders so tight. Several pieces she was sure would fit: a hooded cape in deep green

velvet, a padded turquoise robe, a sheer silk nightgown that whispered of seduction.

Everything was clean and creased, as if it had been lying unused for a long time. Lucy frowned. A very

long time.

When the boys came back, Lucy was smoothing the wrinkles from the green cape, trying not to notice

how her hand trembled against the velvet. “Your teacher, Miss March . . . How old was she?”

Iestyn looked surprised. “Almost a hundred, I guess.”

Lucy’s heartbeat quickened. Her suspicions grew. “And how long ago did she die?”

“I don’t . . .”

Kera reappeared and set a silver hand mirror on one of the chairs. “Fifty years ago.”

Iestyn nodded. “Maybe more.”

“But you knew her. She taught you.” Her mouth dried.
Over fifty years ago.

“Aye.” Roth’s grin revealed strong white teeth. “The prince said he was not having us grow up as little

savages.”

“But we were the last,” Kera said. “Or almost the last.”

Iestyn set another bucket on the hearth. “There was Dylan.”

“But he had already gone through the Change before he came,” Roth said.

Page 50

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“We were the last on Sanctuary,” Kera said.

Lucy moistened her lips. Her pulse drummed in her ears. “The last what?”

Iestyn regarded her with wide gold eyes. “Why, the last children.”

Conn’s tower overlooked the sea. But despite the western views of the sunset, the eastern views of the

purpling sky, the drafts that slid over the thick stone sills and skittered along the floor, the air was thick

and hard to breathe. He felt the pressure in his chest. The tension in the room was palpable.

Half a dozen wardens gathered around the map spread across his desk. His gaze rested on them in turn.

Griff, solid as a castle wall. Morgan of the northern deeps, in the black and silver of the finfolk. Enya, her

breast as white and round as the pearls twined in her hair. Brychan. Kelvan. Ronat. They crowded

without touching, protecting their personal space with planted feet and angled elbows. Even gathered in

council, the selkie were solitary. Territorial.

The bloodied sun cast pink rectangles on the floor and across the desk, but the map needed no

illumination. The heavy parchment glittered with pinpricks of light like constellations fallen from heaven.

Each glowing dot represented an elemental’s energy.

The angels’ white brilliance was lost in the great gray swathes of humanity that covered the continents.

But all the other elementals twinkled and winked, their energies coaxed to sparks by Conn’s magic: green

for the children of the earth, the fair folk, clustered in the wild places, woods and mountain ranges; red

for the children of fire, flickering along fault lines; blue for the children of the sea, scattered across the

oceans like a smattering of stars.

Ignoring the headache pulsing in his temples, Conn spread his hands over the map, focusing his

concentration, until he felt the demon lord Gau’s presence like a burning coal against his palm.

Opening his eyes, he tapped the map with one finger. “Gau is there. Coming from the fault lines of
Yn

Eslynn
.”

“When?” Ronat asked.

“Soon.” Conn rubbed his burned palm absently. “Tomorrow, at a guess. Post a guard on the spring and

another on shore to meet him when he comes.”

Enya frowned, flipping her red hair back over her shoulder. “Why the shore? Do you think he will come

in human form?”

Unlike the other elements, fire had no matter of its own. Lacking physical bodies, demons could move

with the speed of thought. However, to speak, to act, the children of fire needed to assume corporal