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He pressed the heel of his palm between Lucy’s legs, still wet with her essence and his seed. The magic

gripped his neck like claws, sinking fangs into his skull, squeezing his brain. He smeared his wet hand

over the dry husks of the
claidheag
, anointing it with life. “
Be.
”

He felt the surge, the shock of focused power, leap from him to the sheaf on the ground.

Done.

The power ebbed away, leaving him drained, his head throbbing with the aftermath of magic, and the

claidheag
stiff and still.

Conn inhaled, holding his breath to fill the sudden emptiness of his chest.

Lucy slept, unknowing.

He lifted her body in his arms and carried her away, leaving his handiwork lying behind them in the field.

The dried stalks rattled together.
Know.

The wind whispered.
Breathe.

The earth radiated warmth.
Be.

The breeze teased the bundle on the ground. The
claidheag
’s hair, the pale gold of corn husks or straw,

fluttered, smoothing, softening. Beneath the swaddling clothes, its limbs swelled and grew supple, taking

on substance, taking on flesh.

From the branches of a spruce, a crow launched, squawking in protest or warning.

The corn maiden opened its eyes, the green-yellow of pumpkin vines. Lucy’s eyes, in Lucy’s face.

It lay in the field, watching the clouds chase across the sky, absorbing the last rays of the sun, listening to

the chatter of the wind.

A catbird landed on a nearby stake, cocked a fierce, bright eye, and flew away again. An ant, wandering

the furrows, traced a trail over the
claidheag
’s motionless hand. Slowly, thought formed, a pale shoot

from a kernel of consciousness.

It did not belong here, cut down, cut off from the earth.

Not anymore.

Sighing, the
claidheag
rose on one elbow and then to its knees. To its feet. It should go . . . The word

was buried deep, a fat, round word, moldy with disappointment.
Home.
It should go home.

Following the tug of blood, the stir of memory, it shambled toward the road.

4

CALEB WATCHED MAGGIE STIR ANOTHER SPOON ful of sugar into her mug. Less than

twenty-four hours after their meeting with the selkie prince, they sat at their own kitchen table. The night

breeze flowed over the sill, carrying with it the scent of the salt wood.

This was what he’d dreamed of, Maggie in his house and in his life, sharing their thoughts at the end of

the day. After two months of marriage, he knew her tastes and her habits, knew she liked her coffee

sweet and the windows open and sex first thing in the morning.

But he didn’t know how to give her what she wanted. Not this time.

“Maybe in a couple of years,” Caleb said. “When things settle down . . .”

She shot him a wry look. “When I am seven hundred and five?”

He reached to cover her hand on the table. “You don’t look a day over three hundred.”

“There’s a comfort.” But she smiled and turned her palm over, linking her fingers with his. “It’s all right,

Caleb. I am happy here. With you.”

Some of the tension leached from his shoulders. “I’ll give Conn our answer in the morning, then.”

Margred curled her free hand around her mug. “What about Lucy?”

Caleb felt the stiffness creep back into his neck. “What about her?”

“When I first met her, I thought . . . I felt . . .” Margred shook her head. “She is your mother’s daughter,

too.”

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Everything within him rejected the idea. From the time Lucy was a toddler with fat baby legs and a “love

me” smile, she had been his. He’d been the one to take care of her. To protect her. To fix her lunch and

her scrapes, to read her stories and tuck her into bed.

“Lucy is human,” he said shortly. “She never Changed.”

Selkies retained the shape they had at birth until they reached sexual maturity. Seals lived as seals for

three to six years; humans remained in human form until puberty. When Caleb’s brother, Dylan, turned

thirteen, he Changed for the first time. His transformation had torn their family apart. Atargatis—Alice,

their father had called her—returned with her older son to the sea, leaving her husband, ten-year-old

Caleb, and baby Lucy behind.

“How do you know?” Margred asked. “You were not here.”

Caleb ran his hand over his short hair. “She called me at school to tell me she got her period, for God’s

sake. You think she would have mentioned a little something like sprouting flippers and fur.”

“Would she?”

Caleb’s jaw set. “Lucy’s as human as I am,” he insisted. “If she wasn’t, you would know it. You would

have sensed it. Or Dylan would.”

“Yes. But she is still of your mother’s bloodline. If she were to have a child—”

He didn’t want to think about it. His sister was fresh out of college. Barely out of diapers.

“Let’s not borrow trouble,” Caleb said. “Christ, she doesn’t even have a steady boyfriend.”

“Neither did Regina before she met your brother,” Margred pointed out.

“What are the odds my sister’s going to get knocked up by a selkie? As long as Lucy sticks to her own

kind, she’ll be fine.”

Maggie arched her eyebrows. “Really.”

Fuck.

He hadn’t stuck to his kind. And neither, thank God, had she.

“I only meant . . . You told me yourself most humanmer offspring are human. Lucy’s only half-selkie. If

she marries a mortal, a human, their kids will probably be human, too. They’ll be safe.”

“
Lucy’s
human children would be safe,” Margred repeated.

Caleb frowned. “Probably. The demons have never gone after Lucy.”

“Then why do you assume our child would be in danger?”

“Because—damn it, Maggie, you’re selkie.”

“Not anymore.”

“You are. In your blood. In your genes. And I carry my mother’s genes. The combination . . .” Fear for

her closed his throat. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Didn’t you say we should not borrow trouble?”

“Maggie, if you get pregnant, you might as well paint a bull’s-eye on your belly. The demons will come

after you. You could die.” The thought ripped his insides. His hand clenched hers on the table. “I can’t

lose you.”

“My dearest heart. My love.” Her voice was gentle, her eyes dark and tender. “All mortal things die.

Now or five years from now or fifty . . . what is any of it, compared to eternity? Yet I would rather have

one year with you than a millennium without you. I am human now. Let me
be
human.”

She was everything he’d ever wanted. And she wanted a family. With him.

“It’s a risk,” he insisted stubbornly.

“Life is a risk. I chose this life with you. Let me live it fully.”

Her love shook him.

Her faith shamed him.

“Maggie.”
Shit.
“I never could resist you.”

Her smile was slow and provocative. She was so beautiful, with her wide, dark, understanding eyes and

her come- fuck-me smile. “That’s what I am counting on.”

“You didn’t conceive with your mate. What if I can’t give you a child?”

“The selkies’ birth rate has been declining for centuries. It may be I am barren. If we cannot make a child

together, we will do what other human couples do. Adjust. Adopt. I do not expect a miracle, Caleb.”

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Her smile turned rueful. “Or only a very small one.”

She ripped his heart.

She tossed back her hair and stood, giving him another of her direct looks. “Do you want to make

another list of reasons why this is a bad idea? Or do you want to make love?”

Heat kicked in his groin. Caleb swallowed. He was so screwed. Or he would be, if he gave her half a

chance.

If he gave
them
a chance.

“
Life is a risk.
”

“I want you,” he said honestly. “I always want you.”

Her breasts in his hands, his body in her body. Nothing between them. Skin on skin, the way it had been

the first time.

“Well, then.” Her smile spread.
Come and get me.

Caleb grinned with love and lust and rounded the kitchen table.

Bart Hunter fumbled with his front door in the dark.

Something was wrong. Alarm pierced the damp evening mist and the fog of whiskey like a beacon.

No porch light. Lucy always left the porch light burning for him. The knob turned under his hand before

he could get the key in. She never forgot to lock the door either. She was a careful girl, Lucy.

Responsible. Not like . . .

But his mind winced from the comparison like an old bruise.

He stumbled into the front hall. So still. So dark. The smell of the Crock-Pot—tomatoes, maybe, and

onions—permeated the downstairs.

Bart wavered between the empty kitchen and the darkened living room. His stomach rolled with a

combination of hunger and too much Seagram’s. Maybe he’d have a bite, to please her.

But first he’d have another drink.

He lurched for the living room and the liquor cabinet. Stopped short, his heart banging.

“Lucy?”

She sat upright on the couch, her eyes wide open and gleaming in the dark.

He covered his start, his guilt, in aggression. He hated her to watch him drink. “What the hell are you

doing up? You should be in bed.”

“I should,” she said. Impossible to tell from her tone of voice if she was questioning or agreeing with him.

Bart scowled. “What’s the matter with you?”

She paused, like she was really thinking about it. “I don’t know.”

He took a reluctant step forward. She looked . . . different. Paler, maybe, though it was hard to tell in the

dark. She smelled like she’d been working in the garden after school, a sharp, green smell like summer

grass. “What are you, sick or something?”

“I could be sick.”

Inadequacy rose like bile in his throat.

He had never known what to do with her, this youngest child, his only daughter. If Alice had stuck

around, it would have been different, maybe. Better. Bitterness coated his tongue. A lot of things would

have been better.

He rubbed the side of his nose. “Well, did you eat?”

“No.”

He waited for her to move, to get off the couch, to jump up and offer to fix them both something like she

usually did.

He wanted her to go to bed, out of his way, out of his sight. He wanted a drink, damn it.

But she continued to watch him with wide, unblinking eyes like a doll’s. Rooted to his spot on the couch.

Shit.

Bart stomped into the kitchen, burning his hand on the lid of the Crock-Pot as he spooned whatever

mess she’d made that morning—chili, he guessed—into two bowls.

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He thrust one at her. “Go on. Eat.”

She waited until he dipped his spoon and brought it to his mouth before she did the same.

They ate in silence. He didn’t know what to say to her. Never had.

She laid her empty bowl in her lap. Nothing wrong with her appetite, at least.

“Well.” Bart stood. “I’m turning in.”

His daughter regarded him blankly.

“Got an early morning,” he explained.

She should know that. Wasn’t he out the door before she woke up every morning?

He was relieved when she nodded.

“I should be in bed,” she said. “I could be sick.”