The Selkie Enchantress

by Sophie Moss

  When she bit her lip, his gaze dropped to where her teeth caught the soft pink flesh. He wanted to brush his thumb over that spot, lower his mouth to hers, and drink in the taste of her. But… it was almost like he already knew what her lips felt like melting against his. “Why haven’t you built that house, Caitlin?”

  “I haven’t… gotten around to it.”

  “But you still want to?” Why was this so important to him? Why couldn’t he remember the rest? “Caitlin, I…” He trailed off as cold fingers wrapped around his forearm. They snaked like ropes, cutting off his air, scrambling those first snatches of memories into dust.

  Caitlin’s eyes clouded as her gaze shifted to Nuala.

  “Thank you for inviting us tonight,” Nuala said, her voice as rhythmic and lyrical as the melody of the waves. “But it’s time for Owen and me to go.”

  Caitlin pried her hand free from Liam’s grip and leaned down to pick up the dish from the floor. There was still a teaspoon of black sand in it and she cradled it in her hands, like it was the most precious thing in the world. “How’s the cottage working out for you?”

  The surf pounded in Liam’s ears. Seawater clogged his throat. He was frozen, unable to move or speak as the sea surrounded him, filling his lungs with ice-water.

  Nuala handed him her empty glass and he took it, numb. Her fingers squeezed his arm as he struggled to breathe over the icy water choking him. “I had some trouble with the heater this morning. I was hoping Liam could show me how to use it.”

  “Of course.” Caitlin’s grip on the sand tightened. “He knows how to work it.”

  Nuala smiled. “I hope you don’t mind if I pull him away early.”

  “Not at all.” Caitlin gritted her teeth. “I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

  It was green and quiet. A world of ice and silence. Liam watched Caitlin turn and walk away, and he set the glass down. His fingers stuck to the stem and he pried them off one by one. But when he pulled his hand away, a crystallized seal of ice coated the glass and his gaze fell to his hand where a faint shimmer of blue was slowly spreading over his skin. A sudden movement on the couch caught his eye and he glanced up as Nuala’s son stood.

  Owen took one look at the glass and Liam’s frozen hand, and he flipped up his hood to cover his face. The hood was coated in that same crystallized pattern of ice. He slipped out of the room as black and silent as a ray, a trail of water dripping in his wake.

  Chapter 7

  Caitlin lit a fire to ward off the morning chill. Rain smacked against the windows, streaming down the glass like cold, silver tears. She’d forgotten to bring in the wind chimes and they spun around in frantic circles, their strings tangling in the wind. Glancing out her window at the white caps chopping over the surface of the ocean, she frowned. There was no way the ferry was going to be able to make the crossing in this weather. Which meant Liam wasn’t going to be able to make it to his appointment with the neurologist.

  He might have thought he fooled her last night, but she knew better. He’d forgotten more than just their date. He’d forgotten the details of his latest research project. And that wasn’t like Liam. She started to put away the dishes from last night. Plates and glasses clicked against each other as she fit them back into the tightly packed shelves above the sink.

  There was nothing Liam took more seriously than his research. He could overlook trivial things—the leaking pen in his pocket, the screw slipping out of his glasses, the tie he was supposed to bring to a presentation—but he wouldn’t forget the details of a research project. Especially one he’d hinted at so often in their recent phone conversations. Caitlin paused in the middle of putting a bowl away. How odd that he would forget both of those things.

  The wind howled, rattling the windows, and she lifted up on her toes to prop the bowl up on the tallest shelf. No, that was ridiculous. What Liam needed was to get to a neurologist. Not have his friends throw him a party and set out trinkets to help him remember. She’d thought for a second she caught a glimmer of recognition in his eyes after he spilled the sand, but maybe she’d been kidding herself.

  At the knock on the door, she tossed the dishrag in the sink and crossed the room. She pulled the door open and stepped back, surprised. “Owen?” He was soaked through, not wearing a raincoat or carrying an umbrella. “Come in, come in.” She ushered him inside. “What are you doing out in this mess without a rain jacket?”

  He stepped into the warmth of her cottage, dripping all over the floor. “I haven’t got a rain jacket.”

  She grabbed a bath towel and handed it to him. She watched him ball it up awkwardly, patting his arms and, sighing, she took it back and scrubbed it over his wet hair and dried his face and neck. “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s home.”

  “She lets you wander off in a storm like this?”

  “She’s writing a song. She always wants me gone when she’s writing a song.”

  “I see,” Caitlin said, taking the towel back and hanging it over the shower. But she didn’t see. What kind of mother let her child run off in the rain in the dead of winter? “Come over and sit by the fire. I’ll make you some tea.”

  He crossed the room, drifting over to the bookshelves and poking his fingers into some of the books. He frowned as he slid them back in place. Caitlin watched him curiously as she set the kettle of water on the stove to boil. “What brings you around this morning?”

  He slipped his hands in his pockets, guiltily. “I wanted to see the story again. The one Kelsey showed me last night. The one about the mermaids.”

  “The Little Mermaid?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to look at it again. I liked it.”

  Caitlin slipped into her bedroom and pulled the story out of the top drawer of her bedside table, the drawer where she kept her most special things. She walked back out into the living room and handed it to him. “There was another boy who favored this story a long time ago. When he was about your age.”

  Owen took it from her hands and settled into the chair closest to the fire. He opened the book, flipping through the pages and savoring the pictures. “Was it the man I rode the ferry in with? The one with the black hair who was here last night?”

  Caitlin lifted a brow as the tea kettle started to hiss. “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “I saw him looking at it last night.”

  “Did you?” Caitlin asked, studying him curiously. She noticed the similarities again, the black hair and blue eyes. If you looked, really looked, there was a bizarre similarity in some of their facial features, too. Shaking off the unsettling feeling, she watched him pop out of his chair and head back to the shelf, sliding several titles out until he found what he was looking for.

  Caitlin lifted a brow. “Beauty and the Beast?”

  Owen carried it back to the table, sliding it under The Little Mermaid. “I just wanted to look at the pictures again.”

  The copper kettle started to rattle and whistle. Caitlin poured two steaming mugs of Tara’s rose petal tea, adding a scoop of sugar to each and setting them on the table. When Owen ignored his and continued to stare at the storybook, a troubled expression swept over his face, eerily similar to Liam’s last night when she caught him reading the same story. “What is it?”

  Owen glanced up, snapping the book shut. “Nothing.” He reached for the mug, yelping when he burned his fingers on the chipped pottery. Hot water splashed out of the mug.

  Caitlin dashed back into the kitchen, wetting a dishcloth with cold water.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at the spot where the liquid was seeping into the tablecloth.

  “It’s okay,” Caitlin soothed, hurrying back over and wrapping the cloth around his fingers. “You don’t need to be sorry. Here,” she said, turning the mug around so the handle faced him. “Hold it here.”

  She showed him how to curl his fingers gingerly around the handle and then settled slowly back
into her chair. Didn’t he know how to hold a mug? She watched him blow on the steam and the color rise to his pale cheeks, his gaze drifting back to the books. “So,” Caitlin began, careful to keep her voice neutral. “How long does this songwriting usually take?”

  Owen lifted the mug, slurping a small sip of sugary tea into his mouth. “A while.”

  “An hour? A couple of hours?”

  “I don’t know,” Owen said, taking another sip. “This is really good.”

  Caitlin stared at him. “So… what? You’re just expected to get lost?”

  He slurped loudly, nodding.

  Unbelievable. Caitlin pushed at the sleeves of her sweater. She didn’t care how much artistic space a person needed. You didn’t toss a child out to fend for himself in the rain. “You seemed to be getting along with Kelsey last night. Have you thought of checking in with her? She’s probably playing a game with the other children in the pub.”

  Owen set down his mug and picked at a tear in the peach-colored fabric. “That’s okay.”

  Caitlin’s brow knitted in concern. He’d rather hang out with her than with the other kids? Rain battered the windows and Caitlin’s gaze dropped to her mug, watching the tea leaves settle into a pattern on the bottom of the cup. She stared at the outline of an infant curled up in a ball. What the…? She swirled the warm liquid around again and her eyes widened as the same shaped re-formed.

  She set the mug down with a clatter. Owen glanced up, those too-familiar eyes meeting hers intensely. She needed to get out of this house. And she needed to get away from this kid. Now she was starting to lose it! “I’m going out,” she said, pushing back from the table. “Feel free to stay as long as you want. There’s tons of food in the fridge. Make yourself at home.”

  Owen stood. “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “But it’s raining.”

  “I have work to do.”

  “Can I help?”

  Caitlin’s jaw dropped. “Wouldn’t you rather hang out with the kids in the pub? And do… kid things?”

  “I’d rather come with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” He swallowed, looking at his feet. “You’re nice.”

  Of course. She was nice. And look how far that had gotten her. She was babysitting the kid of the woman who was stealing the love of her life away from her! She felt like stomping her foot, but when she looked at that sweet, vulnerable face, what could she do? “Okay,” she said, sighing. “You can come with me.”

  His whole face lit up. “Can I bring the books?”

  “There’s no light or heat where we’re going,” she warned.

  “That’s okay,” Owen said quickly, already scooping them up and clutching them in his arms.

  Caitlin eyed his still-wet clothes. “Come on, I’ll loan you a slicker.” She fished two rubber jackets from her hallway closet, one for each of them. He slipped into his, and it fell to his knees. He looked so young and innocent, taking such care to tuck the books safely into the big inside pocket. The ache it left in her chest almost stole her breath away.

  Swallowing that desperate yearning for a child of her own, she looked down at Owen’s feet. His socks were still drenched, leaving little wet prints on the tiles. She ducked into her room and came back out with a pair of thick wool socks. “Here,” she said, handing them to him. “These’ll be too big but at least they’ll keep your feet warm.”

  She watched a sudden shadow of fear pass over his eyes. “That’s okay,” he said, trying to hand them back to her.

  Caitlin crossed her arms over her chest. If Owen was her responsibility then she was responsible for making sure he didn’t catch a cold. She might not like how his mother was treating her but a mother’s actions weren’t the fault of the child. “We’re not leaving until you put them on.”

  He shifted his feet nervously, curling his toes under to hide them.

  “Come on,” Caitlin held out her hand. “Off with the wet ones. I’ll hang them in the shower to dry.”

  His eyes darted around the room, but finding no way out he finally sulked over to the couch, turning his back to her and slipping his wet socks off.

  Caitlin shook her head. Boys, she thought, rolling her eyes and sliding her feet into her sneakers, then walking into the living room to grab the wet ones before he changed his mind. But she froze mid-step when she caught a glimpse of his bare foot, and the translucent webbing between his toes.

  ***

  Caitlin backed out of the room, careful not to make a sound. Webbed feet? Her wide-eyed gaze dropped to the puddle his sneakers had made on the floor.

  “I’m ready,” he said cheerfully, hopping off the couch and handing his wet socks to her. She took them, forcing a bright smile and bit back the questions lodged in her throat. He slipped his feet, covered now in warm fuzzy wool socks, into his wet sneakers. “So where are we going?”

  Caitlin swallowed. Surely it wasn’t normal for a child to have webbed feet. “Do you remember that cottage where we found the rose yesterday?”

  He nodded.

  Caitlin opened the door. A blast of cold wind swirled into the house. “That’s where we’re going.”

  Owen stepped out into the street, blinking as the rain stung his eyes. “What are we doing there?”

  Caitlin pulled the door shut behind them and they headed out into the biting winds, leaning forward to keep their balance. Across the street, the Dooley’s sheep dog pressed his paws against the window, barking at them from behind the glass. “I need to decide what to do with it.”

  “The rose?” Owen asked, jogging to keep up with her.

  “No,” Caitlin answered, veering off the main road and onto the muddy moss-covered path leading north to the bogs. “The cottage. It’s going to take a lot of work to get it livable again. But someone, someday…” Her voice turned wistful and the rubber flaps of her jacket smacked up and down in the wind. “Someone will either spend a holiday in it or call it a home.”

  “Is that what you do?” Owen asked. “Make old things pretty again?”

  Caitlin glanced down at him. “You could say that.”

  “Is that what you did to the cottage I’m staying in?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you said you weren’t finished.”

  He remembered that? From the first night on the dock? “That’s right. I’m not finished.”

  “What’s left?”

  “Little things. My friend Glenna is finishing up a few paintings for the walls. I want to get a different comforter for the master bedroom and the window”—she paused, looking down at him—“in your bedroom still sticks.”

  He nodded, like he knew.

  “Have you tried to open it?”

  “Once,” he admitted.

  “Isn’t it a little cold to be opening windows?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I couldn’t hear the ocean.”

  He couldn’t hear the ocean?

  “Look!” He broke into a jog as the cottage came into view. “It’s still there.” His voice caught in the wind, drifting back to her in snippets. He disappeared into the wall of rain, dropping to his knees in front of the rose. “One of the petals fell off,” he called back to her.

  Caitlin caught up to him, rainwater dripping down her nose and into her mouth. She heard a faint bell-like sound over the thundering ocean and her gaze dropped to the rose, where the rain tinkered over the frozen petals, like water on glass.

  Owen picked up the petal carefully, cradling it in his palm. “Look, it must have just fallen.”

  It was so white, almost like it glowed. There wasn’t a smudge of dirt on it, even though Owen had snatched it up off the ground. The wind tugged Caitlin’s hood back from her face and she grabbed it, holding it in place. “Come on, Owen. Let’s get inside.”

  “Wait,” Owen fished around inside his jacket pocket, pulling out one of the fairy tale books. Rainwater rushed from the roof, splashing onto the pages as he flipped through the
m. When he found what he was looking for, he held up the picture to her. “It’s just like in the story. When the last rose petal falls, the Beast’s time is up.”

  Caitlin felt a cold chill race up her spine.

  The rain poured down, hammering against the glass windows of the cottage. Sea spray exploded along the rocky coastline to the north. Owen lifted his eyes to her. “Is someone’s time on the island running out?”

  “It’s just a fairy tale,” Caitlin shouted over the howl of the wind. “Come inside.”

  But Owen reached out, touching the rose still planted in the ground. And slowly, one by one, his fingers turned blue and a thin layer of crystallized ice coated his skin, freezing his hand in place.

  Chapter 8

  “Can you say that again, James? Sorry. The service is spotty.” Liam dumped the contents of his briefcase onto his desk, fishing around the crumpled papers, balled receipts, and sticky candy bar wrappers for a clue. The scent of frying cod and malt vinegar drifted up from the kitchen of the pub, where his grandmother was already filling orders for lunch. “This storm’s a lot worse than we thought it would be.”

  “Is your internet still working?”

  Liam double-checked. “For the time being, yes.”

  “Just send me what you have, then. We need to have it submitted by tomorrow and I want a copy in case you lose power.”

  “Sure. I’ll do that.” How? How was he going to do that when he couldn’t find the document?

  “This is going to be huge for the University. And specifically for the department. If this goes as well as I think it will, you’ll finally have a term to work on that precious island of yours.”

  “A sabbatical?” Liam’s fingers flew over the keyboard, only half-listening as he searched for the document. It had to be here somewhere. “Since when does the University of Ireland offer sabbaticals?”

  The dean laughed, a rich booming baritone through the crackly phone wires. “Very funny, O’Sullivan. You’ve only been hounding me about a no-teaching term since August. And you’re probably going to get it because you’re the best researcher we have on staff—even if all your research is grounded in folklore. We all know how seriously Ireland takes its fairy tales. But…” His voice lowered in confidentiality. “You can say it’s research all you want, but we all know it’s probably about some girl. In the end, it’s always about a girl, isn’t it?”