You look cold, darling, he had said with that appalling Texas accent of his.
Cassie had stepped away, but he’d followed her. Daray was on the beach, raking up the straw, his shirt off, the muscles in his back rippling in the sun. He didn’t see her standing near the Wayside railing with Spark Walters.
I’m not cold, Cassie had said, trying to keep her distance. He looked a little less formidable than he had looked when he’d arrived. The wind off the ocean teased his hair, and somehow he had gotten oil on his cream-colored suit.
Cassie shivered again, forcing herself out of the memory. Spark Walters. She was sensing him because of last night, because of the memories that Lyssa had forced to the surface.
Cassie always associated Spark with the taste of oil and that horrible feeling in the center of her stomach, the feeling that didn’t go away for years afterward. Her mother had called it a hard ball of grief and told her that she had to diffuse it, but Cassie had been afraid to touch it, afraid that, if she really examined it, it would engulf her and she would never again be the same.
Lyssa shot her a worried glance, and before she had realized what she had even done, Cassie turned away.
Hiding her emotions from her daughter, even now. Cassie didn’t want Lyssa to see how shaky she was, how even the memory of that period disturbed her more than she could say.
Still, the sense of Spark Walters grew, and it wasn’t just the memory of the young man who had touched her inappropriately in the middle of an afternoon, or even of the man who had talked to her like an equal before she fled the group dinner, but of someone else, someone bigger, stronger, more powerful than that young man had been.
This feeling, this sense of Spark Walters, came from now.
Cassie backed away from the beach access. She turned toward the street, saw Gabriel Schelling head toward his vehicle, parked half on the sand and half on the pavement. Hamilton Denne was watching him, a frown on his face.
Then Denne glanced at Lyssa, and his expression seemed furtive, guilty. Cassie willed him to look at her and he did.
She was right about the guilt. He knew something, something he thought she should know, something he thought important. He knew—
Then he looked away, and she didn’t fully get the sense of what it was that he knew. She could move closer, reach out with her mind, and touch his ever so gently—he might not even know. But she didn’t. The years had taught her to respect other people’s privacy, even at her own expense.
The hard ball of grief had settled in her stomach like a poorly digested meal. She ran her hand over it, the way she used to do when she was pregnant with Lyssa, as if trying to confirm the truth of it. The feeling had been gone for so long, but now it was back.
Like the acrid taste of smoke in the back of her throat. Like the sense that Spark Walters was watching her, waiting, biding his time.
Cassie shivered again.
Then she looked across the street. That reporter, the one Lyssa had handled so thoroughly, was talking to Roseluna. Fortunately, the reporter’s microphone was down.
But the conversation seemed like a pleasant one, an informative one, as if the women had known each other for a long time.
Was that how the reporter had gotten here in the first place? Had Roseluna told her something was going to happen, maybe bribed her with footage from the storm, then promised something more?
Cassie clenched her fists.
Then Roseluna looked at her—and smiled.
The smile was so like Daray’s—warm, open—that Cassie’s eyes teared. She blinked hard, not willing to wipe them, praying that the tears wouldn’t fall. She didn’t want anyone to see her like that.
She didn’t want anyone to know the depth of her feelings, even now.
As her vision cleared, she realized Roseluna was still watching her, smiling ever so slightly.
And Cassie knew, she knew with a great certainty, that Spark Walters was nearby, and that Roseluna had called him.
The telephone conversation came to Cassie as if Roseluna had revealed it—which she very well might have:
“Mr. Walters? I hope your secretary has told you that I’m with the Marine Biology Department of Oregon State University?”
Such a lie, but an effective one. Since Roseluna had gone to Oregon State, had spent most of her time in the Marine Biology Department, it would sound plausible.
“Yes, yes,” Walters snapped. “She also told me this was an emergency.”
“I know you’re only talking to me because I’m from Anchor Bay—”
“I’m a busy man, young lady. Get to your point.”
No Texas twang now. Or at least, the twang was hidden, pushed back, probably to make Spark Walters more acceptable in an increasingly international marketplace. He had become a player now. Athena had told Cassie that, before Cassie had asked her to stop talking about him.
Cassie hadn’t wanted to hear about Spark Walters once Emily was born. She didn’t want any reminders of the fact that her blood and his had finally mixed and produced a child.
“My point is, Mr. Walters, that we’re getting readings which show that the oil is leaking onto the ocean floor about two hundred miles off Anchor Bay. We’ve been checking the charts, and the oil’s composition, sir. My colleagues aren’t ready to jump to any conclusions yet, but—”
Cassie held her breath, as if the conversation she was eavesdropping on were happening in real time.
“—it’s my job to check both modern shipping routes and historical accidents. According to our records, no oil tankers have gone down at that location, but it appears that some of the records are incomplete. As I talked to the old-timers, I heard about a ship called the Walter Aggie, which was owned by Walters Petroleum and caused a massive, unreported spill on the Oregon Coast. One man I spoke to says that there was a cleanup by Walters Petroleum, as well as some reparations. He said the cleanup was led by you, sir, and that you successfully kept the news of this out of the local media, and somehow managed to keep records of the spill from filtering to the government agencies.”
“What do you want?”
“Actually, sir, I simply wanted to do you a favor. I’ve been to Anchor Bay. I was on one of the teams two years ago doing a random check of the Oregon beaches for oil residue after the New Carissa spill—”
The New Carissa. Cassie let out that breath. The New Carissa ran aground at Coos Bay in February of 1999. She had been part of that cleanup too, and it had been ugly. Even in the modern media era, sometimes information didn’t get out. The ship’s damage and the subsequent oil leaks made national news, but the damage to the local fish hatcheries and sea mammals and seabirds was so much greater than reported.
No one wanted to know that the oil they used to fuel their cars and their homes, to create the life that they all led, could destroy everything it touched.
“—and, well, sir, I was amazed. There isn’t a drop of oil or oil residue on the Anchor Bay beaches. It’s as if they’re protected somehow, or that’s how they were two years ago. I figure, if you can take care of this now, before my group does its report and word leaks to the media, then everything’ll be all right.”
“Why are you doing this? What do you really want?”
The suspicion in Spark’s voice surprised Cassie. She would have thought he would have jumped on this chance.
“Honestly, sir, what I want is fairly simple. You clearly developed a cleanup method that works and continues working over decades. I understand why you haven’t let that out—then you would have to admit your tankers and captains are fallible too. But I think the method should—dare we say—leak. I’d like to work with you, maybe learn the method, and write it up—without your name or your company’s name—for the journal—”
“No.”
“Sir?”
But the buzz on the other end let Cassie know that Spark Walters had broken the connection.
He had ended the call, but he had come out here just the same.
/> Then she realized she was still looking at Roseluna, that they had been staring at each other for some time. Roseluna had sent her that phone conversation, which had happened . . .
... the day before.
The day before, and then someone—Roseluna?—had called him this morning about the exodus.
But the call had happened before the exodus even started.
Roseluna’s smile increased. Cassie blinked, making herself turn away. Spark Walters was here, then, too, in time for the destruction of Anchor Bay.
Roseluna was going to bring him down too, along with everyone else.
I told you to get your family out of here. This time, Cassie heard Roseluna’s voice in her head in real time, as plain as if they were standing side by side, conversing. Do it soon.
Cassie wrenched her gaze away from Roseluna’s. The entire interaction—if that was what she wanted to call it—had shaken Cassie.
Everything was out of kilter and wrong.
And now, Spark Walters was going to walk right into the middle of it—just like he had done before.
DIGGING INTO THE PAST
The Third Layer
Thirty-Eight
January 1970
Arno’s Supper Club
Cassandra sat with her back to the grill, the flame the chefs used to impress the patrons and to sear the beef making her hotter than she wanted to be. Her mother had dragged her to this meal because Athena thought that Spark Walters would want someone his own age to talk to.
Cassie hadn’t wanted to come. Athena had had to beg. Even then, Cassie would have preferred to be on the beach, working under the glow of car lights, trying to get rid of the oil that Walters’ company had spilled into her ocean.
Besides, Daray was there. He had said he would take care of everything. The selkies, he told her, had an idea about ways to clean up the oil, provided the Buckinghams promised that nothing like this would happen again.
Cassie had said they couldn’t make that kind of promise. The world was getting more unpredictable, and there was no way to control humanity. But Athena had thought that they might be able to keep the refuge protected.
She would work on it, she said. But first things first. She had to deal with Spark Walters.
Walters sat at the head of the table. He had changed into a darker suit with the same style jacket and even wider legs. He seemed to prefer bolo ties and cowboy boots, but he was civilized enough to check his hat at the door. He even gave the coat-check girl a large tip, larger than Cassie had ever seen anyone hand out in a single moment.
He had done it to impress Cassie. He made that clear with the smile he gave her. He had offered her his arm as the maître d’ led them into the dining room, but she pretended she hadn’t seen it.
Her mother, on the other hand, wasn’t pretending anything. “You may as well give it up,” Athena said to Walters. “My daughter considers herself married.”
“Considers?” He raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused.
“Well, she followed Daray’s family customs, which are even more hippyish than hippie ceremonies.”
Athena didn’t even try to hide her contempt. Cassie felt her cheeks warm. She adjusted the shawl she wore over her granny dress and wished she wasn’t part of this conversation.
Walters smiled down at Cassie. “Barefoot on the beach?”
“Not quite,” she said coolly, unwilling to tell him anything.
It would be impossible to explain the ceremony to an outsider anyway. Daray had given her custody of his pelt in front of his entire family. He had sworn loyalty and allegiance to her for as long as they both lived, and she had sworn to protect him in all ways whenever he walked on land, promising him at least two children—one to be raised in the customs of his people, and one to be raised in the customs of hers.
Athena objected to the entire ceremony, but she objected to the last part the most.
“I keep telling her that the ceremony is not binding until she steps before someone who can make it legal—a judge, a minister, hell, even a captain at sea, but she won’t—”
“Mother,” Cassie said. “Mr. Walters doesn’t want to hear our family squabbles.”
“On the contrary.” Walters took her hand, wrapped it around his arm, and placed his own hand protectively over hers. “It’s refreshing to hear someone else’s problems for a change.”
Arno’s was nearly empty. During the fall and winter months, the supper club was only open on the weekends. Even then, it did a dismal business except over the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.
Arno’s liked to say it stayed open for the locals, but most locals couldn’t afford the place, no matter how much they wanted to come.
Athena had initially suggested the Trawler, which had cheaper food and meals that Cassie could eat. But Walters wanted the best in town, partly to impress Athena and partly to maintain his image—whatever that was.
Athena claimed she didn’t care. She had gotten him to agree to a meal, without his minions or the mayor and the sheriff, both of whom were irritating her with their conditions and willingness to listen to the rich boy.
They wouldn’t do anything without her; they knew what kind of power she had. But they didn’t like outsiders knowing that they answered to a woman.
No matter what Athena had envisioned, however, it wasn’t happening. By the time her mother had had her Gibson, Spark had had his beer, and Cassie (who refused to drink) had eaten the entire relish tray, the conversation had gotten surly.
Athena wanted Spark to pay for the cleanup, the lost wages, and any other damage that might or might not occur in the future. Spark was willing to help with the cleanup provided there was no publicity, but he was not going to subsidize an entire village.
Their voices kept climbing, and even the chefs, hiding behind the steaks sizzling on the grill, shifted uncomfortably. Cassie’s stomach growled, and her mind wandered—literally.
She searched for Daray.
He was on the beach, as he had promised he would be, only he wasn’t cleaning up. He was standing in the shadows of the Devil’s Goblet, Cliffside House rising above him in the darkness. In the distance, Cassie could see the lights of a dozen cars trained on the beach, along with some floodlights people had donated from their backyards.
The workers seemed small and dark, like ants working inside a lighted cage.
Cassie couldn’t feel the wind, and she couldn’t smell the oil, but she could see everything through Daray’s eyes. He didn’t seem to notice her, which was a first between them. He seemed too intent on the conversation with his father.
“I think it’s dangerous,” his father was saying. “Do you have any idea what would happen?”
“All I know is the history.” Daray’s deep voice warmed Cassie. She loved how it sounded from his perspective, even deeper than it was when she was listening from across the room, rumbling inside him like a cat’s purr.
“History as told by whom?” his father asked.
“A number of people,” Daray said. “They say the resulting storm will clean all foreign matter that we designate from the sea and its shore. We just need a place to dump it.”
Cassie felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She made herself focus, for a brief moment, on her mother and Spark. They were still arguing over the best way to clean the beaches, and Athena was accusing Spark of caring more about Walters Petroleum than about human beings.
Cassie shook her head slightly—what else could her mother expect?—then let herself slip back into Daray’s mind. This time, she went stealthily. She had a feeling—and she was uncertain whether it came from him or not—that he wouldn’t feel free to have this conversation if she was listening.
“... I understand that no matter what the humans do, they’ll leave some kind of residue. The entire area will be polluted, Father, maybe forever. We’re not going to find another haven like this. I say we use our powers to guard our home—”
“It’s not that simple, Daray.�
� His father sighed, paced toward the waves breaking on the beach, then walked back. “This storm you talk about is not created simply by dripping selkie blood into the ocean. If it were like that, we would create storms all the time just by nicking ourselves on a rock.”
Daray crossed his arms. He was cold without his pelt, but he would not admit that to anyone. He had given it to Cassandra of his own free will.
“Then what?” he asked.
“The storm is created by the blood of a dying selkie. The selkie must bleed in the water and die before the storm will come up. And this is no ordinary storm, my son. It makes the storm that drowned the oil ship look like it was nothing.”
Daray raised his head. “You’ve seen one of these storms.”
“Yes.” His father shuddered. “And I do not want to see one again.”
“Not even to save the harbor, the beach?”
“There are other beaches, Daray.”
“Not with these protections. Not with Cliffside House.”
“You place too much faith in these women. They cannot—”
Cassie? Another voice sounded in her head. A male voice, one she did not recognize. Cassie, are you with us?
Cassie blinked and left Daray’s mind. She came back to the table to see her mother and Spark Walters staring at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was thinking about something else.”
Spark’s head was slightly tilted, as if he was studying her, as if he didn’t believe her. She had probably misheard him. He hadn’t been speaking in her mind. It had just seemed that way because her consciousness had been so far from the table.
“That must have been some daydream,” Spark said. “You seem tense.”
Cassie forced herself to smile. “You are fighting with my mother. That’s enough to make anyone tense.”
Spark smiled. It was a good-ole-boy smile, filled with impishness and the promise of fun. It was the kind of smile that made people smile back, even when they felt that they shouldn’t.
“Your mother and I want the same thing,” he said. “We want Anchor Bay returned to its normal form.”
Fantasy Life Page 33