Sea Witch (26 page)

So Margred lied. Charmingly, easily, over cups of coffee. Sitting

between them, she told the same lies she had once told Caleb: She did not

know. She did not remember. The male detective wrote everything down

as if he believed her. The female had doubts—Margred could see the

skepticism in her eyes—but she could not argue with Margred’s pretty

distress over her memory loss.

Margred felt no guilt. No betraying blushes, no awkward hesitations,

no dropped glances gave her away.

She lied and smiled and sipped her coffee and wanted to wring

Caleb’s neck. Where was he? Why had he left her to deal with these

people alone?

“Is Caleb coming soon?” she asked as she refilled the male

detective’s cup.

He smoothed his mustache, shooting a glance over his hand at the

woman. With the careful instincts of the hunted, Margred noticed the

look. Her pulse kicked up.

“We believe so,” the woman said.

“Tell us about your relationship with Chief Hunter,” the man—

Reynolds was his name—said.

Relationship
. Is that what they called it? Margred sat back down on

the edge of her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “We are friends.”

The man turned a page in his notebook. “Close friends.”

She smiled at him. “Yes.”

“How long have you known the chief?” the woman asked.

Margred tried to remember what Caleb told the doctor. “About a

month.”

She felt their sudden attention, like sharks scenting blood in the

water.

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“Since before the attack,” Reynolds said.

Margred frowned. “Yes.”

“You remember,” the woman said.

Ah
.

“I remember Caleb,” Margred said. “Nothing else.”

“So you really only have his word for it that you two were . . .

close,” Reynolds said.

Margred stopped herself from reaching for Caleb’s necklace around

her throat. “I do not understand.”

“Were you two getting along? Before all this happened, I mean?”

Treacherous undercurrents swirled below the surface of the

conversation. What did these people want? “Of course. I still don’t

understand—”

“We’re trying to help you,” the female detective said.

“Another woman was attacked on the beach last night,” Reynolds

explained. “If you know anything that could help us . . . anything at all ..”

Understanding struck Margred. Caleb had once accused her of

protecting someone. Did these two actually imagine she—

They could not possibly suspect he—

She straightened her spine. “Caleb is a
good
man.”

Reynolds nodded. “I guess you feel you owe him a lot.”

“Especially since your . . . accident,” the woman put in.

Margred bared her teeth. “I do not owe him anything. I have money.

A job.”

Reynolds looked down at his notebook. “You work for a friend of

his, don’t you? Regina Barone?”

214

A bloodred haze rose in Margred’s brain. For some reason, these

humans were targeting Caleb. Threatening him. She bristled like a seal

defending her pup. But she did not know how to protect him.

“He got me my job, yes.”

“Was he with you last night?” Reynolds asked.

“He came by.”

“What time was that?”

“I was watching television with his sister. You could ask her.

Perhaps . . . nine o’clock? A little after.”

“Tell me what happened then,” Reynolds said.

Margred clasped her hands loosely in her lap, holding on to her

temper.
Tell the truth
, Caleb had advised. Well, if it would help him, she

would try. “Caleb gave his father a ride home from Antonia’s. His father

had had too much to drink. Caleb was very considerate, very calm. He

helped his father to bed. Then he came downstairs and we talked for a

while before he went home.”

“How long?”

Margred shrugged. “Perhaps . . . an hour?”

Reynolds looked up. “So he didn’t spend the night?”

If Margred could have lied, she would have. “No.”

“Why was that?” the woman asked.

Margred’s heart lurched. She could not possibly explain why they

had quarreled.

“
I was angry. Jealous, I guess
.
And I took it out on you
.” Caleb’s

gaze had met hers, all nerves and need, and she felt the jolt in the pit of

her stomach. “
Come home with me, Maggie
.”

She wished she had.

215

Too late.

“I was tired,” she said. “A long shift at the restaurant.”

“So you didn’t have words?” the female detective asked. “A

disagreement?”

“What are you suggesting? That Caleb was so upset by a lovers’

quarrel that he went out and attacked some woman on the beach?”

Sarcasm dripped from her voice. “You insult him. Caleb is one of the

kindest, most honorable men I know.”

“You haven’t known him very long.”

“Long enough to understand your suspicions are ridiculous. ”

“We don’t suspect anybody yet. We’re just trying to get a picture

here.”

The female detective leaned forward. “Chief Hunter just got back

from Iraq, didn’t he? How’s he handling that?”

Margred arched her eyebrows. “I imagine he is happy to be home.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t affected by the experience. ”

“Yes.” Margred met her eyes coolly. “He limps.”

The woman pressed her lips together. “Any signs of stress? Mood

swings. Nightmares. Depression, maybe.”

Nightmares, Margred thought, with a catch at her heart. He had

nightmares.

“No.” She rose. “Now, if that is all—”

“Not quite all.” Detective Reynolds slid a manila envelope from his

notebook. “We’d like you to take a look at last night’s victim.”

“Why?”

“You might have seen her before.”

216

“If I did, it is unlikely I would remember. But of course I will look if

you like,” Margred added politely, and sat back down.

Reynolds slid a photograph from the envelope. Neither of the

detectives looked at it, Margred noticed. They watched her instead.

She took a breath, steeling herself against betraying any reaction,

and held out her hand.

Ah, no
.

Her throat closed. She wanted to vomit. Her nails curled into her

palms.

Hastily, the female detective loosened Margred’s grip on the edge of

the photograph before it crumpled.

Margred barely noticed. Her mind whirled. Her stomach churned.

“Can I get you anything?” Reynolds asked. “Water, maybe?”

Water . .
.

Margred drew a ragged breath. Her heart pounded. “No, I will be

fine.”

“Do you recognize her?”

Margred shook her head in mute denial.

“Take your time,” Reynolds said gently. “I know it’s a shock.”

“Yes.”

Margred forced herself to look back at the face in the picture. An

attempt had been made to clean it up, but nothing could be done to cover

the livid bruising along the jaw or disguise the torn and bloody lips. The

one eye swollen nearly shut. The other . . . puckered. Empty.

Margred hissed.

“You sure you haven’t seen her before?”

217

“I am sorry,” Margred said.

But she was not speaking to the detectives. She was talking to the

woman in the picture.

The murdered selkie.

Gwyneth of Hiort.

218

Seventeen

THE DETECTIVES LEFT LUCY’S HOUSE, TAKING the

photograph and their suspicions with them.

Margred shivered, wrapping her arms around her body. Gwyneth

was dead, slaughtered and skinned like a baby harp seal. She could not

dismiss the other selkie’s fate. Or ignore her own any longer.

Whatever demon had attacked her out of the dark hunted still. He

could, he probably would, return for her.

She hugged her elbows tighter. But it wasn’t only her own danger

that haunted her. If another elemental stalked her kind, if fire turned

against water, more was at stake here than Gwyneth’s death or Margred’s

survival. The very balance of nature would be affected. Which meant . . .

destruction. For the earth and the sea and everything that inhabited

creation.

Her kind. Caleb’s kind. All.

Margred bit her lip until she tasted blood. This was the prince’s

responsibility, his fight. She was not prepared for this. Always going with

the flow, immersed in the cycle of the seasons, in swimming and sunning

and sex, she lacked the knowledge and training, the habit of thought or

trick of temperament, to deal with a skirmish between immortals.

She was, as Regina would say, screwed.

Frightened of her own death and what lay beyond.

And for almost the first time in centuries, angry. Beneath her shock

and fear, rage smoldered inside her like a lump of coal from a demon’s

fire.

Gwyneth had trespassed on Margred’s territory, had coveted

Margred’s man. But poaching or not, Gwyneth had not deserved to die.

The front door opened. Margred jumped.

219

Caleb stood in the light of the hall, tall and grounded as an oak tree,

with leaf shadow eyes and sun-tipped hair. Tiny lines of fatigue or

frustration dug between his brows and bracketed his mouth.

He looked so good, so right, standing there, she forgot he did not

believe her. Forgot she was annoyed with him. A great wave of worry

and relief carried her from the couch and into his arms without thought or

hesitation.

They closed around her. She clung to him, needing the solidness of

his flesh to reassure herself he was here. He was whole. He was well.

His lips pressed her hair. “It’s okay,” he murmured.

Which only proved he had no idea what he was talking about. A

demon hunted, and those two detectives had practically accused him of

murder.

Margred closed her eyes. He smelled wonderful, like earth and

sunshine, sweat and Caleb. His arms were strong around her, and his

shoulder was as hard and rounded as an apple. His uniform buttons

scratched her cheek. Even that friction was somehow reassuring, a

reminder she was still alive.

She rested her forehead against his chest, absorbing the comfort and

safety of his body.

Temporary comfort, she reminded herself. Illusory safety.

But all the harbor she had.

“You knew her,” his voice rumbled. It was not a question.

She nodded against his chest. His heart beat under her palm, strong

and sure.

His chest rose with his breath. “Who was she?”

“Her name was Gwyneth. She was selkie.”

“I guessed.”

Margred raised her head to gaze into his face. “How?”

220

A corner of his mouth indented, but his eyes remained sober on hers.

“Webbed toes.”

Ah
. “Evidence,” she said.

“Yes.”

Margred stifled her disappointment. So he was not ready to take her

story on faith. At least he was willing to listen.

“ ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,

however improbable, must be the truth,’ ” she quoted. She felt his start of

surprise and smiled. “Sherlock Holmes. I have been reading your books.”

“Good for you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “This . . . woman,

this selkie—what brought her here?”

Gwyneth’s memory haunted Margred, the teasing note in her voice,

the avid, speculative look in her eye . . . “
I hear you’ve had good hunting

yourself. In . . . Maine, is it?
”

“The currents,” Margred said.

“Bullshit.”

Her pulse tripped. “It’s true.” Partly true, at least. Either Gwyneth

had not been attuned enough to politics to be aware of Margred’s

predicament, or, driven by her appetites, the other selkie simply had not

cared. “Your island is between the Arctic current and the Gulf Stream,

like . . . like one of your hotels at an intersection. A convenient resting

place for anyone making the ocean crossing.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “And your friend just chose this moment to

travel halfway around the world and get herself killed.”

His belief was new and precious to her. She did not wish to

jeopardize it with lies. But neither would she burden him with the

responsibility of Gwyneth’s lust.

“She was hunting.”

“That’s a long swim for something to eat.”

221

Margred squirmed. Did he guess the real reason selkies came ashore

at night? Did he remember their own first meeting on the beach and

wonder?

“Gwyneth liked . . . variety in her diet.”

“Hell of a price to pay for a snack,” Caleb said. “It’s my fault.”

Her heart jarred. “No. You did nothing.”

“Exactly. I should have believed you.”