Seven Tears at High Tide (16 page)

Nineteen.

Kevin wakes with
a pounding headache. He opens his eyes, trying to make sense of what is happening, but all he can see in front of him is the rough fabric of a canvas bag. Diffuse light filters through it, and Kevin can make out the logo from the local supermarket emblazoned on the white fabric.

He's sitting on a chair with his arms and legs bound tightly with rope. Kevin can hear the sound of waves in the distance, and people talking in agitated voices. He tries to keep calm, but every nerve in his body is electric with fear.

All he can remember is sitting on the pier, minding his own business, staring out at the horizon, watching the waves come in. And the fishermen. It isn't unusual for people to come to the pier to cast a line, and he nodded a greeting when they set up shortly after he arrived. Then he forgot about them, except for noting that one of them seemed familiar, maybe a tourist he'd seen earlier in the summer.

Kevin has no idea how long he was lost in his thoughts, watching the ocean. When he heard the footsteps behind him he turned to see what the men wanted, figured they might need an extra hand carrying a big fish, but then they were grabbing him by the arm and holding something over his mouth, and now Kevin is here.

He runs through everything he knows about kidnappings, thinks about what they might want from him, and tries to stay calm. He doesn't appear to be hurt, only immobilized. And while he has no idea how long he's been unconscious or where they've taken him, he can reason from what he does know.

The grocery bag is from Piedras Blancas. It's possible they're still close to town. They're near the shore, and Kevin can hear the sound of engines, maybe boats. Are they near the docks?

He tests the restraints, shifting and struggling, but they're knotted too tight.

“Boy's awake!” a rough male voice calls out.

Kevin blinks when the bag is removed from his head, and he tries to get a sense of his surroundings. They're in a boathouse. He can smell salt in the air, and that window looks out to the ocean and the lighthouse. His chair is right up against the center opening, where a small fishing boat is docked, bobbing in the current. Water occasionally splashes onto the wooden plank floor.

He sees three people: a man with too much gel in his slicked-back red hair, who holds the bag and stares at Kevin with an awed expression; an older man with a fierce scowl and crossed arms; and a young black woman, probably Sally's age, who is holding a notebook.

“We've got you,” Hair Gel says, grinning at Kevin.

“Please,” Kevin says, remembering a documentary about appeal­ing to your captor's humanity. “I have parents and a sister, and friends… They'll miss me… Please let me call my parents. We have some money, please—”

“We're not interested in money.” The older man in the corner steps forward, radiating confidence. Kevin straightens up, appre­hensive. “We want to know where the rest of the selkies are.”

Kevin knows where he's seen this man before, now: at the cafe, with these people, poring over maps. He thought they were hikers, and now, seeing the maps taped to the wall with charts of ocean currents, the photos of seals and drawings of potential transformations, a detailed drawing of a pelt, Kevin realizes these must be the people Morgan was talking about. Hunters.

Kevin's heart drops to his stomach. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

On a far table he can see a number of metal instruments: medical instruments, scalpels and other things he has no name for, with sharp edges glinting in the low light. They must see the terror in his eyes, because the woman covers the table with a swath of fabric, glaring at the older man.

“I told you having those out would be overkill, Nathaniel,” she says, shaking her head. “I thought you said this would be a quick questioning, not a torture session. He's just a kid.”

“I'm sixteen,” Kevin says, hoping to look as pathetic and non-threatening as possible.

“Won't the others come after him, if we've got him?” Hair Gel says.

“They're not like that; they'd cut their losses and save the rest of the herd,” the old guy—Nathaniel—says, eyeing Kevin with interest.

They think I'm a selkie.

Nathaniel walks forward, and Kevin notices a gun on his hip. There's no doubt that he's the most dangerous of the group. Would they let him go let him go if he told them he's human? What if he's useless? How many action movies has he seen where they kill the witnesses to destroy evidence and tie up loose ends? Already Kevin has seen their faces, and knows what their hideout looks like.

They're probably planning to kill him anyway. Or dissect him, or worse.

The best he can do is not give up any information. He can't betray Morgan and Morgan's family.

“All right, selkie, where's the beach? I know it's around here somewhere, and I'm pretty sure none of you are staying at the rookery. It's funny, we've been here for awhile and we almost decided to move on, but then we saw you on the beach with that pelt and, well—” Nathaniel smiles, but the mirth doesn't quite reach his eyes. It makes him seem menacing, hungry.

“Where is the rest of the herd?” he asks again, pushing Hair Gel out of the way, leaning into Kevin's space.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Kevin spits at the man. Kevin understands science, understands being passionate about something and wanting to learn all about it, but to hurt another person deliberately—that's just cruel.

Nathaniel's face hardens, and he says, “You and your kind,” right into Kevin's ear. Kevin can feel his hot breath, and it makes him bristle.

“You're scaring him,” the woman says, and she pulls Nathaniel away. Kevin shoots her a grateful look, and she nods, the movement barely perceptible, but Kevin sees it. She seems to be the most sensible person in the room; maybe she'll convince the others to let Kevin go. She argues with Nathaniel, but just as Kevin is starting to hope, the man suddenly kicks his chair backward, causing Kevin to fall backwards into the opening.

The cold water is a shock, and Kevin sinks easily, weighed down by the chair. He struggles as the shimmering light of the surface becomes more and more distant. The chair pulls him toward the darker depths of the bay, and Kevin panics, using the last of his energy to thrash wildly. Water surges up his nose, and he's dizzy, but he has to try to get free somehow.

And then something hard collides with the back of his head, and it all goes dark again.

Twenty.

“He's in trouble.
Some people took him. I think it was the hunters. They were looking for selkies, for proof—and me. They took him, and it's my fault.”

Morgan doesn't bother with a greeting when the cottage door opens, but he's gasping for breath, having run all the way from the pier. He transformed immediately, and Floyd was the only person he could think of to go to for help. He didn't return to the cave where his clothing was stashed, just ran straight here, his pelt under his arm.

Floyd doesn't say anything, just looks at Morgan carefully. There's a long silence, only broken by the sporadic drips of water from Morgan onto the stone step, and finally Morgan can't take it anymore, and pleads again. “Please. You told me you used to know them. Do you have any idea where they might be?”

Floyd gives Morgan
a shirt and pair of shorts, grumbling about Morgan's nakedness despite Morgan's insistence that they need to leave.

“Ain't gonna take but a minute, kid. Woulda fed and clothed you all these years, but I couldn't, and now I can, so just let me.”

Morgan gets dressed, feeling strange but appreciative as he tugs on the too-large shirt. The collar drapes awkwardly low on his neck, and the shorts don't stay up at all until Floyd finds him a piece of frayed rope.

“Eh, it's a work in progress,” Floyd mutters. “Let's go get your boyfriend.”

Floyd drags a dusty old cover off what Morgan thought was a huge pile of trash the first time he visited, but is actually an old pickup truck. It rumbles and spits when Floyd starts it, but it seems steady enough. Floyd buckles Morgan in carefully, and then they're off, down the bumpy dirt road that will connect them to the road leading into town.

Morgan grips his seatbelt in one hand and his pelt in the other as he listens to Floyd explain a bit more about this group as they drive. He had been one of these enthusiasts, convinced that the supernatural existed among them and was dangerous. There are a quite a few different factions scattered across the globe, focused on different types of “creatures.” A chill goes down Morgan's spine as he hears the way Floyd talks about these people who used to be his friends, the sharp way they spoke of their goal to catch real, live proof that these creatures existed, and bring them to a facility for study.

“They're not going to hurt Kevin, are they?”

“He's a kid, like you. I don't think they have it in them. But we better hurry. I don't really know what they've been up to since I left.”

A strangled, pitiful sob echoes through the truck, and Morgan realizes it came from him. Floyd gives him a tentative pat. “I'm sorry I don't have radio, otherwise I could put something on to relax you, or—”

“It's fine. How long will it take to get there?”

“‘Bout fifteen minutes or so to the docks. This old thing can't go faster than thirty miles an hour, I'm sorry. It's the best I can do.”

“Okay.” Morgan takes a deep breath. “Just tell me a story or something.”

“Not really a good storyteller, but I can try. Haven't led much of an interesting life—aside from my time with your mother, that is.”

“Tell me how you met, then.”

Floyd's smile is wistful, and for a moment he looks exactly like the man in the photo. “It was an accident. The best accident of my life, really.”

As Morgan listens, the years seem to melt away from Floyd's face, revealing the man he once was. Listening to Floyd reminisce immediately takes Morgan's mind off his current stress.

“I was a student then, studying to get my PhD. I don't know if you know what that is, being a selkie and all—”

“Kevin's parents are both professors. I know what it is.”

“Ah, yes, they're good people. I'd dropped out long before they started teaching at the school, but I've heard of their work. I don't really keep up with the research nowadays. I mostly just—” Floyd coughs, embarrassed.

“It's okay,” Morgan says, surprising himself with how much he means it. “So you were studying?”

“Biology. Loved being outside, loved the idea of being in the field, ankle deep in some tide pool, figuring stuff out. Anyway, I'd run with Nate's group for a time, some romantic notion about the mysteries of the deep, learning more about the unknown.
Selkies.
They were convinced they were gonna find one, get published for discovering a new species. I thought it was incredible at the time, being part of this grand quest for knowledge.” Floyd shakes his head. “I was such a fool. I didn't deserve her, and yet there she was.”

He stops talking for such a long moment that Morgan is afraid Floyd's lost track of the story, or forgotten that Morgan is still in the truck with him. Finally Floyd blinks, drawn out of the memory, and continues, voice heavy. “I'd been kayaking out in the ocean through some rough waves, but I was young and rash; I thought I could handle it, was way too eager to get to my fishing spot. A wave knocked over my kayak, and I got tangled up and trapped in all my fishing gear. Couldn't get free from the kayak, thought I was gonna die, was blubbering about like it was my last, just wishing for some air.”

It was a Request, Morgan realizes. If Floyd had been struggling with the Sea and crying, his heart's desire would have gone out, and the nearest selkie herd would have taken the call.

“Your mom, she—she dragged me out of there like I weighed nothing, pulled me to the shore and sat with me until I'd calmed down. I thought it was a dream at first, until she laughed at me, said I was the silliest human she'd ever met, and told me not to make a habit of putting myself in danger.” Floyd chuckles. “I said I was in danger of a broken heart if she didn't go to dinner with me.”

Floyd sighs, and the scent of happy memories is overpowered by the tang of guilt and sorrow. What it would it have been like, having him for a father? It's interesting, the way the real man is neither the harrowing villain Morgan's family has made him out to be, nor the dashing lost love he thinks his mother still imagines sometimes. Floyd's just a jaded fisherman who throws out an arm to brace Morgan when the truck brakes suddenly at a light, and looks at him across the console, full of regret.

“There's a boathouse by the docks that we used to use; I'm pretty sure Nathaniel still owns it. Saw their boat there a few times this summer,” Floyd mutters as they pull into the parking lot by the docks.

“Which one is it?”

Floyd nods toward a boathouse in the distance with a big number “18” painted on its side.

“Thank you for your help,” he says quickly, getting out of the truck. He's surprised when Floyd follows him toward the docks.

“What are you doing?”

“What are
you
doing? Do you have a plan?”

Morgan shakes his head. “Just going to try and see if I can get him out of there.” He decides quickly that the best approach is from the water, and steps out of Floyd's clothes, handing them back to him. “Thank you for your help. For what it's worth, I think I would have liked you as a father.” It's worth it to see Floyd's face light up.

Morgan nods at him, holds his pelt close and dives into the water, where he transforms quickly.

Floyd calls after him, “Good luck, kid! I'll be here if you need someone to punch that asshole in the face. Let me know!”

Morgan waves a flipper at him and dives. He swims quickly, heading toward the boathouse and listening for sounds of distress. He can smell excitement, fear and anxiety when he gets closer, and he swims into the entrance of the boathouse, grateful for the many shadows that disguise his head when he peeks out to see what is happening.

Kevin is bound to a chair, squirming ferociously as the hunters interrogate him.

“Where is the rest of the herd?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Kevin spits at the leering man's face.

“You and your kind,” he says, hissing in Kevin's ear. Morgan glares at him. It does no good; no one can see him. He hopes he can do something, anything, to get Kevin out of here. It's too late to swim for help, human or selkie or otherwise.

One of the hunters, a girl with dark skin and flyaway curly hair, shakes her head, grabs the man's arm and pulls him back. “You're scaring him,” she says, scowling at him. “This isn't—this isn't what I signed up for.”

“You wanted to see the world, Amanda. You told me you would give anything to see the magic out there. And here it is, in front of your face. It's not all rainbows and sunshine and unicorns, you know. To get answers you have to get your hands dirty.”

The man shoves the chair, and Kevin's eyes widen as the chair tilts backward. Time seems to slow to a halt and Morgan has to bite his tongue on a cry of horror when Kevin falls with a loud splash.

The woman, Amanda, gasps. “He's tied to the chair, you moron! We can't—we have to get him! He doesn't have his pelt, either; he can't transform; you've as good as drowned him—”

The man seizes her around the waist before she can dive in after Kevin, and Morgan realizes these people aren't going to go after Kevin. He dives underwater, and can still hear the voice of the man talking coldly to his protesting colleague. “They have many abilities, even in human form. I'm sure he'll call one of his little friends to help him. You can observe, since you seem to like that so much.”

The voices on the surface fade as Morgan tries to concentrate, adjusting to the murky light in the water. The water in the harbor is dark, filled with trash and other floating debris.

When Morgan spots Kevin his hair is floating above his head and his face is barely illuminated by the shafts of green light filtering through the water. Kevin struggles uselessly in his bonds, and then knocks himself into a boulder.

Morgan yells, but Kevin's name comes out as a strangled bark. Kevin won't be able to understand him as a seal. Morgan dives, watching helplessly as Kevin's eyes close and his limbs droop, all the fight gone out of him. No, no, he can't be—

Morgan can hear the Sea all around him, the magic ebbing and flowing, but he can't think of any question, any information he could possibly ask for right now, other than, “
Will he survive?
”

Morgan reaches Kevin, and he noses at Kevin's face, trying to free him from the ropes and the chair, but his flippers are useless. Morgan shifts quickly, not even thinking of securing his pelt around his shoulders or his waist, only of saving Kevin.

Kevin's heart is still beating, strong against his skin, but his eyes are closed and he doesn't—he needs, he needs—

Air.

Without thinking, he seals his lips to Kevin's in a kiss, breathing into him gently. It takes a moment, and then Kevin's chest rises and falls.

Morgan is heavy with relief. He undoes the knotted rope as quickly as he can, stopping to give Kevin the rest of the stored air in his lungs, and finally frees him. Morgan grabs Kevin under his arms and swims for the surface. He angles sharply to the right, away from the rest of the docks, and swims. His arms grow tired from Kevin's weight, but Morgan doesn't think about that and just keeps going.

They break the surface a good distance away from the docks. Morgan can't see the buildings, but they might still be in sight of the hunters. Kevin seems to be breathing on his own now that they're above the water, so Morgan takes care to keep his head aloft. It's difficult, holding Kevin and swimming at the same time, but Morgan presses on, even as his strength wanes.

They reach the cove where Kevin first took him to collect rocks, and Morgan drags Kevin gently to shore. His eyes flicker open, then shut, as Morgan lays him on the beach. “Morgan?” Kevin asks weakly, reaching for Morgan's face. “This is a dream…”

“Yes,” Morgan says, letting Kevin touch him. He holds Kevin's hand against his cheek, closes his eyes and tries to memorize how this feels. It breaks his heart to see Kevin like this, and he knows he's breaking the rules by letting Kevin see him now. But at least Kevin thinks it's a dream.

“Good dream,” Kevin says. His other hand is on the back of Morgan's neck, guiding him forward.

The kiss is short, and Kevin smiles, closing his eyes, his head falling back in fatigue. Morgan kisses him once more on the forehead; his heart swells with bittersweet longing. “I love you.”

“Love you,” Kevin whispers back, a small, fond smile on his lips.

Morgan lets go of Kevin's hand and steps back, wiping the tear threatening to fall down his cheek. He turns back to the surf and wades out into the water.

It would be faster to swim if he shifted back into a seal, Morgan realizes after a minute of paddling doggedly, exhausted. He con­cen­trates, and then blinks in confusion.

His pelt. What did he do with his pelt?

* * *

Morgan is too
tired to tread water for much longer, and a tingle of anxiety runs down his spine. He's never not known exactly where his pelt is at all times, other than that one harrowing day it went missing from the cave, but Kevin had it, and returned it promptly. No one else can connect the pelt to him, but there
are
a few people who might know what exactly it is.

Morgan is cold to the bone. He's closer to the docks, and thankful for the falling twilight so his nudity won't be obvious if he goes ashore. He could swim back to the cove where his clothes are, but he just left Kevin there. Maybe wait for an hour, go back, get dressed and comb the beach on foot?

There's only one boat out, and Morgan instinctively wants to dive to the bottom, but his current body needs a constant supply of air, so he settles for ducking lower in the water, hoping he's not visible.

He hears a familiar set of voices.

“You see anything?”

Someone surfaces in the water—Amanda, Morgan recognizes, now wearing a wetsuit and diving gear. “Give me a moment, okay. It's really dark down there. If that kid dies this is on you, Nathaniel, you know that, right?”