by Shona Husk
An Elemental Tail
by
Shona Husk
An Elemental Tail
Copyright 2010, 2012 Shona Husk
Cover Art by Helen Katsinis
Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting
Smashwords Edition
First published in 2010 by The Wild Rose Press
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Other titles by Shona Husk
About Shona Husk
Chapter One
Nik dug his toes into the grit that passed for sand on this miserable island called England. The waves smacked his rolled-up jeans and sucked at his feet, as if the sea could draw him in and pull him home. If it were that easy, he wouldn’t still be trapped in a human body. He sighed through clenched teeth. Four hundred years of treading land and breathing air, and he still missed the ocean.
The gray sea swirled around his ankles, and he couldn’t feel it. Oh, it was cold and wet like water should be, but he couldn’t feel it. The pulse of the waves no longer echoed in his blood. The pull of a hurricane half a world away now passed without his knowing. Currents swept across the globe, but he didn’t revel in the eddy of power. He felt nothing from the water. He closed his eyes and inhaled the damp-salty scent of the sea, the element he had once been.
The wind caressed his cheek, tugging on his crimson hair until the strands whipped around like seaweed in a storm. Above him the heavy clouds promised rain. No, too cold for rain. Sleet. Except for him, the beach was deserted. Sensible people hid from the wild whims of the elements. But Nik had been called to the shore by the alien joy and wonder flooding his veins. Someone had touched the flesh that had once been his tail.
Without his tail he was powerless, an immortal human, rejected by water. This time he wouldn’t fail. He would reclaim the book made from his body and be whole. Elemental. His eyes snapped open, fixed on a point in the distance too far for him to see.
Once he would have crossed the distance as a mer with a flick of his tail, or as water, one with the Atlantic Ocean, depending on his mood. Now he would have to fly to America. Nik shuddered, but not from the cold. He raised his eyes to the clouds, and the wind giggled at his dilemma. Air and water didn’t mix. Nik glanced back over the choppy sea. A ship would take too long; it might be years before he got another chance at finding the book. He waded back to the shore with leaden legs. He had a plane to catch.
Chapter Two
“Hi, are you ready to order?” Isla stretched her lips into a smile that exuded more energy than she contained. Her pen hovered over her notepad. She hoped he wouldn’t rush. The restaurant was packed, and standing still was the closest thing she was going to get to a break.
The man glanced up from the menu, his eyes like puddles of ink. “I’m ready.” He closed the menu and handed it to her. As he moved, the lights shimmered over his hair so it bled from black to crimson, a color that had to have come out of a bottle, yet somehow suited his pale skin and dark eyes. “I’ll have the fish of the day and a glass of the Sémillon.”
Isla nodded and noted down his request, but her gaze was on the customer. He was eye-catching, like a lure thrown out to tempt her. The man’s mouth turned up at the corner in a lazy smile. Her cheeks heated; he’d caught her staring. Though really, who dyed their hair that color and didn’t expect to get looked at?
“Will that be all?” She held his gaze. Looking away would be an admission of attraction.
“For the moment.” His eyes lingered on her for a second too long.
The chatter of other diners faded beneath the pulse of her heart. Was he flirting with her? Or was she so in need of a night off she was fantasizing about attractive customers? He blinked, and around her the world resurfaced. She turned away before she lost herself in his eyes again.
She wasn’t the only waitress to notice him. A man eating alone, no wedding ring on his finger, and a look about him like he was on the hunt. There would be an argument to see who delivered his meal. It wouldn’t be her. He was an exquisite piece of eye candy and a reminder she couldn’t have more. Not without sacrificing everything she’d worked for.
Another waitress took his meal over, but his gaze was on Isla. She tried to ignore him, to stay away from his table, yet as she worked she couldn’t help but steal glances, memorizing his features so she could sketch him when she finished work for the night. There was something about him that needed to be captured. He sat so still, but his eyes were alive. He didn’t go through the motions of living. He lived.
Isla turned around to take another look, but he was gone. If it weren’t for the empty plate, she’d have believed she’d imagined him into existence. She sighed and shook her head as she picked up the plate and glass. The only thing she’d imagined was that he would be interested in a dirt-poor no one like her. Between the scholarship and the waitressing she kept her head above water. If she got distracted, she would drown.
****
Isla unfolded the protective brown paper and ran her fingertips over the supple leather for the hundredth time since discovering the book in the box. If she kept stroking the cover, she would wear a hole through the leather. The book was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. From pale cream to black, shot with crimson and turquoise. Colors rippled over the surface, shimmering in the light as if the book was alive. Even the pages inside were divine: thick cream paper with a hint of translucency. Impossible, but the illusion was mesmerizing.
The book was a work of art.
She blinked back tears she’d thought spent. Sarah had bequeathed Isla the book in her will; it was more than she’d ever expected. Great Aunt Sarah had been the one person who’d understood her obsession with art and encouraged her. The five years she’d spent living with Sarah held all her happy memories from her childhood.
When her mother’s boyfriend had eventually tired of her mother and left, Isla had been dragged back home to help with the new baby, and her mother had gone searching for the next man. Her mother’s run-down three-bedroom house was devoid of beauty. No paintings on the walls, no well-tended garden, no books.
All the books she’d loved as a child had also been in the box of things Sarah had left her, along with a small amount of cash stashed between the pages and a necklace. A solitary pearl, still partially embedded in the shell and tied with a leather thong. The leather had d
isintegrated in her hand, so Isla had hung it on a silver chain. It was the only piece of jewelry she’d ever been given.
She’d never seen the blank leather-bound book in Sarah’s house. But Sarah had always been at antique fairs looking for a rare find. The book had obviously been packed away with care. The brown paper was old, the string tired with age. She gave the book one last caress and set it down, ready to be rewrapped. Isla bit the inside of her lip, reluctant to pack the treasure away. A book like this should be filled with drawings and on display, not hidden in a box.
Isla tilted her head. It was a decent size. More than a hand-span tall and wide. She flicked open the cover and rubbed a page between her fingers. It was almost made for drawing on. Sarah must have meant for her to use it as a sketchbook. Why else would she have left it for Isla, and not her own sensible lawyer or accountant children? She reached out and picked up a pencil, writing her name in the front, then the year. The lead glided over the paper. She rubbed her thumb over the letters. They didn’t smudge. A smile curled her lips. Perfect.
Images of the mystery man from the restaurant flickered in her mind. The tilt of his jaw, the curve of his lips as he almost smiled begged to be captured on paper. An idea began to form.
Her cell phone rang with a snippet of Mozart, and the thought-bubble popped. She glanced at the number. Her mother. She was tempted to let it ring out to hear the rest of the tune. Three calls in twenty-four hours—no doubt her mother had realized she’d missed out in Sarah’s will. Another measure played as Isla readied herself to answer.
“Hi, Mom.” She forced enthusiasm into her voice.
“How nice of you to answer this time.”
Isla winced. It didn’t matter what she did; it was never right. “I was working last night.”
And by the time she’d gotten home it was after midnight. She’d been too tired to draw, and while the crimson-haired man had slipped into her sleep, this morning she had been unable to put a single line down, his beauty lost forever. She fingered the pages of the book. Maybe it wasn’t too late…
“Like you need to with that fancy scholarship buttering your bread.”
“I still have to eat.” They went through this every time they spoke. Her mother resented the several states between herself and Isla’s bank account. In her mother’s ideal world, Isla would still be working at the local supermarket and handing over her paycheck.
“We all do.” The cigarette crackled down the line as her mother dragged in a breath filled with smoke.
The remembered scent made her gag. She’d spent too many years spent emptying ashtrays so her younger siblings didn’t play with the butts.
“Spill—I know the uppity old bag left you something. Don’t think about lying. I should never have let you stay with her. You were never right after that.”
Isla closed her eyes as her mother salted old wounds. She had been forced out of the house at five because the new boyfriend didn’t like kids. Sarah had been the only family member willing to take Isla on. She hugged the leather-bound book to her chest. As always, her mother would take anything of value. “Books.”
“Books? Is that all? What am I supposed to do with books?”
And that was probably why Sarah had given them to her. They held no value to her mother. The cash wouldn’t show up in the will. The necklace had been hidden in the folds of brown paper. Sarah had known exactly how to protect her gifts from the avarice of her niece.
Isla expanded, knowing the names meant nothing to her mother. “All my favorites from when I lived there. ‘The Little Mermaid,’ ‘Snow White’—”
“Any first editions?”
Her mother was always grasping. Men, money, or both.
“They’re children’s books.” Illustrated with loving detail. She’d spent hours poring over the pictures, not needing the words. Going home to her mother had been the saddest day in her ten-year-old life. She’d wept as her mother’s beat-up Ford had pulled into Sarah’s driveway to drag her away from the home and school she loved.
Something had happened after that, and Sarah and her mother had never spoken again. Now she knew that Sarah had asked for her to stay, and her mother had refused. What’s mine is mine.
But Sarah hadn’t forgotten her. Each birthday and Christmas she’d receive pencils, crayons, paper, paint, charcoal. She’d filled her and her sister’s bedroom with fairies and princesses, castles, and unicorns. It had been her escape from the yelling and the baiting as her mother worked to keep her expanding number of children at odds. For her eighteenth birthday, it had been a plane ticket so she could go to college. This birthday there would be nothing from the woman she used to wish was her real mother. The book was Sarah’s last gift.
“Typical Sarah, no idea how the real world works.” Her mother muttered her words like acid drops. “Carly needs a new pair of shoes. You’d better send some money home.”
If she sent money home, her mother would spend it on herself. That’s where all the money always went.
“What size is she?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Let me speak to her.”
It was a long shot. When she’d left for the Massachusetts art college six months ago, her mother had cut off all communication with her siblings. She didn’t want their minds poisoned by Isla’s newfound independence.
A slow drag on the cigarette. A cough, and then the lie. “She’s not here. Just send the money for the shoes.” The phone clicked, the empty line humming.
“Love you too, Mom. College is great. I love it here.”
****
The plump woman slipped off her robe and arranged herself in the center of the room. Isla’s fingers closed over Sarah’s book, the leather warm and silken under her fingers. After doing some research, Isla figured it was probably eel skin. She hesitated, the book halfway out of her satchel, but couldn’t bring herself to mark the creamy pages with just anybody. The man from the restaurant shimmered in her thoughts. None of her rough sketches had come close to the memory, so she had left the leather-bound book unmarked.
Instead, Isla pulled out her standard sketchbook. With a soft pencil she started drawing. Gathering the soft curves of the woman and putting them on the page. Rolling hills of flesh, shadowed valleys. She got lost in the minute detail of crossed legs and the creases in the woman’s thigh.
The hair on the back of her neck trembled as if she were being studied. Isla turned and looked over her shoulder. Her lecturer stood one step behind her. Too close. But she’d always liked her personal space. At Sarah’s she’d had the run of the whole house; at her mother’s she’d shared a bedroom and had a corner to herself.
Mr. Gardner’s hand brushed against her shoulder. “You’ve really captured the female form.”
The softness of his words made her skin shudder as if a snake had slithered over her foot. The gold ring on his finger glinted under the lights.
“Thanks.” She rolled her shoulders.
His hand fell away. For a couple of long breaths he watched Isla, then moved on. He stopped to talk to another student and his hand never left his side. Her stomach crashed to the floor. It was only her space he was invading, her he was touching. He glanced back, eyes hooded, and smiled.
Isla pretended she was thinking, her pencil resting against her lip, her eyes unfocused, her brain scrambling for an escape. Not her. It wouldn’t be her. She’d heard the rumors when she’d selected this unit, but life drawing was her favorite class, and she wasn’t going to be put off by campus chatter.
She flipped the page and started another sketch. She drew the woman’s arm. The pointed elbow jerked out of the paper when she filled in the shadows. It was an angry drawing, all lines and darkness. Not what she usually did, not one of her better works, but it made her smile all the same. Art didn’t have to be pretty; it had to evoke emotion.
At the end of the class the model dressed, and everyone packed up. Isla shoved her things into her bag, ready to bolt to her ne
xt class.
Mr. Gardner beckoned her over. She looked at her watch. One minute, and this would be over. He would find another student to pursue when he realized she wasn’t interested. She folded her arms as other students filed past. The noise of their feet on the linoleum scraped like scalpels over parchment, wearing on her nerves. She didn’t want to be standing in front of her forty-year-old lecturer, waiting for him to hit on her. She didn’t have time to date anyone, especially someone taken and twice her age.
“Isla, I find that scholarship students need extra guidance and tuition to maintain the high standard required.” Mr. Gardner arranged his face in an expression that was supposed to look pleasant and caring. Instead, he looked like a psychopath apologizing for killing her while sharpening the knife.
“No one else has expressed any concerns over my work.” So far her grades were above what was required. They had to be. She needed the scholarship.
“I have high expectations.” His fingers brushed her arm as he moved closer. “I’d like to look over your portfolio one afternoon.”
Her heart crawled up her spine, taking all warmth with it. He was using her work as an excuse.
“My portfolio isn’t ready for viewing. I was of the understanding that it would be examined at the end of the year.” She stepped toward the door and adjusted her satchel; looking at her watch would be too rude.
His smile thinned until his lips disappeared. “I’m offering private tutorage.”
“I enjoy developing my own style.” Her voice remained level as she held his gaze, but her palms were slick. She refused to be taken for a ride to smooth out his midlife crisis. She hadn’t moved to the other side of the country to give up her freedom to a man.
Seconds ticked past. Mr. Gardner nodded. “Very well. If you change your mind, I’ll be here.”