Sea Lord (5 page)

not require her pity. “So I heard.”

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She turned her head sharply.

“From your brother,” he said.

Her brow cleared. “That’s right. Have you known each other long?”

Ever since Dylan’s Change at thirteen, when Atargatis discovered her older son was selkie. She had

returned with him to the sea, leaving her human family behind.

A year later, she was dead, trapped and drowned in a fisherman’s net, and Dylan became Conn’s ward

on Sanctuary.

“Long enough,” Conn said.

Fog dripped from the trees like tears. The houses grew smaller and farther apart. Rusting vehicles and

stacks of lobster traps littered yards like wrecks on the ocean bottom.

“Did you ever meet her?” Lucy asked abruptly. “My mother?”

“Yes.”

“What was she like?”

Discontented, Conn remembered. As unhappy with the life she had returned to as the one she left. Away

from the magic of Sanctuary, in human form, selkies aged as humans did. The years on land had dragged

at Atargatis, coarsening her hair, wearing on her spirit, etching lines at the corners of her eyes. But she

was still selkie, still alluring, still . . .

“Beautiful,” he said.

“That’s it? Just beautiful?”

What did she want him to say? She was not like the mother who had abandoned her. Not selkie. And

not beautiful either. Appealing, perhaps, with her lean, quiet face and coltish grace, but . . .

“Beautiful and sad,” Conn said. “Perhaps she regretted leaving you.”

“Maybe,” the girl said doubtfully.

“You could ask your brother.”

“After twenty-three years?” Unexpected humor lit her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“Your father, then.”

“We don’t talk about her.” Her shoulders were rigid. She stared straight ahead at the darkening road.

“We don’t talk about much of anything, really.”

She
was
guarded, Conn thought. More comfortable asking questions of him than offering anything of

herself.

He remembered the way she stood apart at the restaurant, an observer in her own family.

Isolated.

And vulnerable.

He could use that, he thought.

“You can talk to me,” he said.

Lucy unlocked the front door, uncomfortably aware of Conn on the porch behind her. Her palms sweat.

Her stomach jittered. For a moment, she was catapulted back to fifth grade, afraid to bring a friend home

after school.

The door creaked open. “Dad?”

No answer.

Her stomach relaxed.

The reassuring aroma of the beef and vegetables she’d dumped into the Crock-Pot that morning rushed

to greet her, almost masking the smells of must and old carpet.

Lucy had come home from college with a bucket of cleaning supplies and a guide to keeping house, as if

spotless tile would bring sparkle to their lives, as if she could banish bad memories along with the dust.

Maybe her efforts could not make up for the years of disorder and neglect, for the cracked vinyl and the

cramped spaces and the mildew that sprouted mysteriously at the bottom of the stairs. At least her floors

were clean.

Conn followed her as she marched past the shadowy living room, flipping on light switches as she went.

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He stood in the middle of her scrubbed kitchen floor, overdressed, out-of-place, dark, and wild. Her

heart thundered. She felt breathless, as if he’d done his sucking-all-the-oxygen-out-of-the-room trick

again.

And yet he did not move, only stood there with his hands still clasped behind his back.

“Where is your father?” he asked.

She grabbed a spoon and lifted the lid of the Crock-Pot, hoping he wouldn’t notice her hot cheeks.

“Out,” she said, stirring.

Conn glanced at the now-dark windows. “It is late to haul traps.”

He knew her dad was a lobsterman. Lucy’s hand tightened on the spoon. What else did he know?

“My father’s on the water by five every morning. In by four, most days. He off-loads and does his

business at the co-op.” She set her spoon on the counter, pleased that neither her hand nor her voice

trembled. “And then he goes to the bar at the inn and drinks until they won’t serve him anymore.”

She fit the lid carefully back on the pot and turned to face Conn, her back to the counter, her chin high.

“Are you hungry?”

A short, charged silence vibrated between them.

Conn studied her face, his silver eyes inscrutable. “Yes. Thank you. That smells very good.”

She almost sagged with relief and disappointment.

What had she expected?

That he would say he was sorry for her, for her alcoholic father, her crappy childhood?

That he would sweep her off her feet and take her away like a prince in a fairy tale?

Stupid, stupid.
She wasn’t looking for sympathy. Or rescue. Especially not from some cold-eyed

stranger who twisted her insides into knots.

What a good thing he hadn’t offered either one.

“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get you a plate.”

His eyebrows raised. “You must join me.”

Not, “
Would you join me?
” Not a question or a request. Obviously, he expected her to sit down and

put a good face on things and pretend that everything was normal.

Lucy bit her lower lip. And she would, too.

Because she always did.

Conn generally paid scant attention to what he ate or did not eat. But hot food was a change from his

usual raw diet. The simple stew had stirred his appetite.

He watched the girl—Lucy—as she cleared the table and washed their few dishes. In her own venue,

she was really quite competent. He observed the neat, practiced movements of her hands as she rinsed a

plate and set it on the counter to drain. Narrow, brown hands, with long, slender fingers and strong

wrists.

She stirred his appetite, too.

Conn frowned. He was revising his opinion of her attractiveness. He still did not understand what he was

doing here.

She turned from the sink, a cloth in her hands, and thrust it at him. “Dry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She gestured toward the counter stacked with dishes. “I’m running out of room. I need you to dry.” A

sudden gleam appeared in her eyes. “You do know how to dry, don’t you?”

He regarded her with mingled appreciation and annoyance. Was she laughing at him?

“I believe I can learn,” he said and took the cloth.

They worked in silence until all the dishes had been dried and put away.

“What about that one?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder at the big pot on the counter. “It’s fine.”

“There is food inside.”

Not much. Conn had filled his plate twice. But . . .

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“It will be wasted,” he said.

She took the dishcloth from him without meeting his gaze. “My father might want something when he

comes in.”

Might?

“
He goes to the bar at the inn,
” she had said, “
and drinks until they won’t serve him anymore.
”

“And if he is too drunk to eat?” he asked.

Lucy fussed with the cloth, arranging it over the bar of the oven door to dry. “Then in the morning before

I go to work, I’ll throw it out.”

“Will you wash the pot then, too?”

“Yes.”

“And prepare something else.” Not a question, this time.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I guess you think that’s stupid.”

Stupid, yes. And gallant.

He admired her tenacity. He understood what it was to meet one’s obligations, day after day, year after

year, without hope or expectation.

“Why do you do it?” he asked.

She smiled crookedly. “Who else will?”

He understood that, too.

Their gazes locked. Beneath the surface of her eyes, kelp green shadows swayed. Conn’s chest

tightened.
Why was the sea reflected in her eyes?

The doorbell rang.

She dropped her gaze.

For a moment, he could not breathe.

No
, he thought.
Stay.

But she was already moving past him to the door. “That will be Cal and Maggie.”

She sounded relieved. Or perhaps she was merely pleased to see her brother.

Conn observed their greeting, the tall, quiet police chief in his rumpled uniform, the tall, quiet

schoolteacher with garden dirt on her jeans. They did not embrace. But their silent exchange—his long,

assessing look, her quick, reassuring smile—revealed their bond.

“Touching, is it not?” Margred murmured in Conn’s ear. “The Hunters are a very loyal family.”

He recognized her warning.

“And you, Margred?” He challenged her softly, this woman who had once been selkie. “Where do your

loyalties lie?”

She widened her eyes. “Why, with my husband, my lord,” she said and moved away.

The door opened again, and Dylan entered with the small, dark, pregnant woman he intended to marry.

Around his neck, he wore the silver medallion, the warden’s mark: three interconnected spirals

representing the domains of earth, sea, and sky. The sign of Dylan’s new power . . . and his duty to his

prince.

He did not make the mistake, this time, of addressing Conn by title. He bowed stiffly.

Conn nodded in acknowledgment.

“Well.” Dylan’s woman cocked her head like a bird, her gaze darting around the hall. “I don’t know

about the rest of you, but I’ve been on my feet since four this morning, and I’d like to sit down.”

Lucy jumped. “Of course. Why don’t we use the living room?”

“Actually, Lu . . .” Her brother Caleb’s slow voice dragged her back from the doorway. “Maybe you

could put up a pot of coffee.”

“I don’t . . . Tea?” she offered.

“Tea would be great. Thanks.”

She changed course toward the kitchen while the others flowed into the darkened living room.

Dylan switched on a lamp, casting a pool of yellow light over a table. “That’s better.”

Did he refer to the light? Conn wondered. Or his sister’s absence?

Caleb took a stand with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. “What have you told her?” he

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asked Conn.

Conn raised his eyebrows. “Very little. Though I am curious why you have not told her more.”

“She is human,” Dylan said.

“So is your brother,” Conn said.

On the sofa, Margred crossed her legs. “Caleb faced a demon for me. He deserved to know who I was.

And what their mother was.”

“Milk or sugar?” Lucy asked breathlessly from the hall.

Silence thickened the air.

They did not want her there. Conn felt their discomfort as a living, pulsing barrier, drawing them together,

leaving Lucy alone on the outside.

She felt it, too. Conn saw the red tide sweep her face.

He had already learned what he could from her. He needed Dylan’s report.

Yet looking at her flushed cheeks, her soft, stricken eyes, he felt almost sorry for her.

“Sugar, please,” Margred said.

The other woman, the pregnant one, pulled herself to her feet. “I’ll help,” she said kindly.

But Lucy was already backing away, shaking her head. “I’ve got it.”

“Why don’t you set out everything in the kitchen,” Caleb suggested. “We’ll join you when we’re ready.”

Lucy flinched and then was still, like a wounded animal that will not call attention to itself. “Actually, I just

. . . I have lesson plans to do. Upstairs.”