Sea Cursed: An Adult Dystopian Paranormal Romance: Sector 13 (The Othala Witch Collection)

by Amy Lee Burgess

  The boat picked up speed as we pulled away from the dock. I hung onto the railing and kneeled on the bench so I could look back at the growing-ever-smaller dock. The Regent and guards shrank in stature until they resembled dolls. Beyond, the backdrop of Galveteen Island blurred into indistinct shadows and colors. Tears burned my eyes, but the crushing knowledge I would never set foot on the island, indeed most likely ever again on dry land, was too huge to allow any sort of emotional release. So I only stared.

  As we sped farther away from home, the steady rain changed to a drizzle, which then petered out completely. I blinked in shock when the sun appeared. I hadn’t seen the sun in two weeks or more. Yet, as I looked back at Galveteen, a curtain of rain obscured most of it from view. Storm clouds massed above the entire expanse of the island and out into the ocean.

  This clear line of demarcation between bad weather and sunshine fascinated me. The previous spell of Reutterance was still at work creating storms around the island. Now that Logan was no longer holding off the worst of the effects, the waves churned and frothed from the shore to the line where the rain stopped and the sea smoothed. I watched until I heard Logan on the deck. The throb of the engines had ceased, and when I turned to look at him, I discovered him unfurling the mainsail.

  “Do me a favor?” He paused to smile at me, his eyes crinkling around the corners against the sunlight. “Go below and find that damn spell book.”

  “Spell book?” He might as well have been speaking a foreign language. “What does a spell book look like?”

  He shrugged. “Like a book. Thinner or thicker depending on how many pages. Maybe just a sheaf of papers rolled into a scroll. The Lord Regent said it was there. Whatever it looks like, it’ll be near the athame or talisman we’ll need to charge.”

  “You do understand that an athame could waltz up to me and kick me in the kneecaps and I still wouldn’t know what on Othala it was, right?” Exasperated, and mortified because I didn’t know all this witchspeak and I knew I ought to, I made no move to leave the bench.

  “An athame is a dagger. A knife,” he explained patiently as he hoisted the sail. “Usually, but not always, with a black handle.” At some point he’d taken off his shirt, probably because it was wet, and now I had an uninterrupted view of his bare chest, which was muscled with a sprinkling of dark hair. Damp jeans clung to his lean, swimmer’s hips. Biceps bulged as he threw his strength into the ropes. Where the hell were his shoes? Even his feet were unnervingly sexy somehow.

  Disgusted with myself for staring at him like a star-struck maiden from a romance novel written in the Before Times, I hastily ducked past him and down the ladder leading below deck. I discovered a galley/sitting room – spacious considering we were on a sailboat. Everything was neatly tucked away and most of it was bolted down. On a small table beneath a porthole, I found a roll of papers tied with a black ribbon next to what looked like a copper coin. It had a small hole punctured through the top and was strung on a long gold chain.

  Biting my lip, I reached out to touch it, expecting it to shock me, but it didn’t. Instead, it proved cool to the touch without the slightest hum of energy. I shook my head. Of course. It hadn’t been charged yet. Logan and I were the ones who would give it any power it might hold.

  Curious, I bent closer to see that it had writing and a picture stamped into it.

  Beneath a stylized sun and two flying gulls were the words “Galveston Island”.

  A drew in my breath. A Before Times souvenir from when people had visited the island. We’d seen the machine that had turned Before Times coins into these souvenirs at the museum in the Strand. Had this coin just been stamped, or was it really old from before the ravagers had overtaken most of the world? Impossible to tell and no one to ask.

  When I touched the ribbon tied around the scroll, there was no jolt of electricity either. Just paper. No way to tell how old it was either. Maybe Logan would know, but I hadn’t a clue.

  Before I had time to pick up both items, Logan descended the ladder and landed, quick footed as cat, at the bottom.

  “It’s not an athame,” I said, pronouncing the unfamiliar word with care. “It’s a coin souvenir from the Before Times, when Galveteen was Galveston.” That last word sounded foreign too, and subtly wrong.

  “Really?” Eyes alight with curiosity, Logan moved closer. His bare arm brushed mine when he reached for the talisman so he could turn it over in his fingers and examine it.

  When he touched me, the resultant spark of energy jittered throughout my nerve endings, popping and fizzing like champagne. Aside from a brief, aware glance, Logan didn’t react and focused on the coin.

  I retreated to the other side of the table and pretended to be interested in the scroll. I reached out to untie the black ribbon, but let my hand drop away. Indecisive fear paralyzed me.

  “Go ahead,” Logan urged, glancing up from the coin. “It won’t bite.”

  “Maybe it’s written in some sort of ancient witch language. I won’t understand that,” I whispered.

  A wry grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “Neither will I.”

  “Really? There’s not some sort of esoteric language witches need to know? I mean, why do they write down spells then? There must be something different about them than there are the regular ones we do just inside our heads, like making it rain or throwing fireballs.” I bit my lip, trying to stem the babble of words spilling out of my mouth. I sounded so anxious. And young. Impossibly young.

  “They’re more complicated is all.” Logan made it sound so logical and nothing to stress over, but I couldn’t stop the trembling in my voice.

  “What happens if we don’t say the spells or incantations or whatever they’re called just right? Do things go wrong? Can I read from the paper or do I have to memorize things? I’ve never been very good a memorizing. I was in the school play once and forgot almost all my lines I was so nervous.” I licked my lips and wished I could stop babbling, especially since Logan’s grin got wider and wider with each word out of my mouth.

  “Think of the incantations as memory aids, but not as binding contracts. I suppose if the spell called for you to make sand into glass and you said sand into seashells, something totally different than originally intended would happen, but you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “I don’t know.” I gripped the edge of the table until my fingers ached. “If I memorize wrong, maybe. If I’m nervous.”

  “Then we’ll have to make sure you aren’t nervous. Dem, if you don’t want to read the incantations aloud when we cast the spell, you don’t have to. Not if you know what you want to happen. It’s just there might be a lot of moving parts and pieces going on at the same time and the incantations help you remember them all.” Logan slid onto the bench behind the table and motioned for me to do the same thing.

  I sat and propped my elbows on the table so I could bury my face in my hands and not look at him. He slid closer until our thighs touched, and I gasped at the spark of electricity that flowed from his leg into mine.

  “If it doesn’t help you to memorize, don’t,” he said, his mouth so close to my ear, I shivered as his breath fluttered against my skin. “Read it off the damn paper. Write it down in your own words on the back of your hand. Whatever works for you.”

  “But I don’t know what works for me,” I mumbled into my hands.

  “Ever study for a test or quiz?” he asked

  I sucked in my breath when he combed his fingers through my hair, even though the touch was calming. I shrugged, hoping both that he’d stop touching my hair and that he’d never stop. “Of course.”

  “Then you know how to prepare for casting a complicated spell. His fingers slowed, but continued to stroke. “Othala, I love your witch hair.” He buried his face in it, inhaling deeply.

  “It’s wet from the rain,” I objected, squirming in my seat as bolts of desire streaked through my body.

  “It smells like strawberries.”

  “Stupid sh
ampoo at the mansion,” I muttered. “At home I always used honeysuckle scented. We bought it at the farmers market. Witches made it, I suppose.”

  “Just like they made the strawberry shampoo at the mansion.” Logan sat back, drawing me down so my head rested on his shoulder. I took a deep breath, struggling to calm the butterflies in my stomach. He smelled like saltwater, probably from the sea spray cast from the waves. Or maybe just because he was a sea witch.

  “Hey!” I sat up, fear making my heart knock against my ribs as if it wanted to break free of a cage. “You’re down here. Who’s driving the boat?”

  He laughed. “It’s called sailing. And the current and the wind are sailing the boat with a bit of magical suggestion from me. We’re making a big circle over and over again. Why? Afraid we’ll be lost at sea?”

  I scrubbed at my face, trying to erase my embarrassment and the gnawing unease that had chewed at me since we’d left dock. “We can’t lose sight of Galveteen. Not until we cast the spell.”

  “True,” he said. “But I have the island’s coordinates, and we’re not as far away as you might think.”

  “I’d feel better if you were up there steering or we dropped anchor or something.”

  “The sea floor is about two thousand feet deep here, maybe more. I don’t have rope that long.”

  “It’s that deep?” I pictured us on the boat and that vast depth beneath us and swallowed against a lump of slow-building panic.

  “It should be,” Logan said, sounding so unconcerned as to make me want to slap him. “I suppose it could be less since we are drifting back toward the continent and the gulf gets shallow. But I believe we have a ways to go.”

  “How did ravagers get on the Regina if we’re that far from shallow water and land?” I asked.

  Logan froze for a moment, obviously calculating my words to see if they held merit.

  “That’s a very good question. Proves how complacent I am if nothing else.” He slid out from behind the table, but only went to the one of the large built-in cabinets in the galley, which he opened.

  “Aren’t you going to go check?” I cried.

  “Check what?” He peered inside. “If we’re close, we’re close, and we can’t change it until we cast the spell.”

  “Maybe we should read the spell then.” I gritted my teeth. What on Othala was he doing in that cabinet, focusing on that instead of the scroll?

  “I thought maybe some coffee or tea would taste good about now. Also some lunch.”

  “Should we waste our water making tea? Shouldn’t we conserve it? We can’t drink sea water.”

  “No, but we can convert sea water into fresh water.” Logan turned from the cupboard with a canister of coffee in his hand. “I’m a sea witch, remember? Besides, there’s a sink that’s obviously attached to some sort of holding tank. We don’t have to worry about water, Dem. Relax.”

  “We supposed to be out here to cast the spell, not drink coffee and cast incantations to turn sea water into fresh water.” I scowled at him.

  He sighed. “Tell you what. I’ll make lunch and you read the scroll. Ten to one you’ll find out this spell needs a few days to prepare and charge, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t intend to starve in the interim.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Let me make lunch. You read. You’ll make more sense out of it than I will.”

  Logan set the coffee canister down and stared out the porthole above the sink for a moment as if he were struggling not to say something. I waited for him to berate me, or worse, agree with me, but all he said was, “Okay. But just so you know, I make a mean sandwich and nobody’s coffee is better than mine.”

  “Big words.” I slid around the bench so I could get up. “Father says my coff...” I bit my lip. Father wasn’t saying anything anymore, was he? I gulped. “Father used to say my coffee was the best.”

  There. I said it. Used the past tense when speaking about my father. And I didn’t cry, although my throat hurt.

  Logan squeezed my shoulder on his way past to the scroll. Grateful he hadn’t said anything, because if he had, I would have burst into tears, I rushed to make coffee and sandwiches.

  Logan carefully untied the black ribbon and set it aside before unrolling the scroll. I scooped coffee into the carafe and put water on to boil. I peeked at Logan, who was absorbed in reading. He’d already turned pages twice, his mouth pulled tight with concentration.

  I located fresh bread, a cooked breast of chicken, lettuce, tomato and butter. We’d better savor these sandwiches and the gallon of milk I found in the refrigerator since we didn’t have a cow on board, nor a churn. Or chickens. We had no chickens either. Panic roiled my gut making me want to vomit. Fish, Demetria. There is a never-ending supply of fish. You like fish!

  When I brought the plates and mugs to the table, Logan had finished reading and was contemplating the talisman, which he cradled in his palm.

  I sat, then picked up my coffee mug. I took a long, restorative sip battling my urge to shriek at him. I wanted to know about the spell, too. Was he ever going to speak?

  “Three days,” he said, abruptly noticing the sandwich at his elbow. He set aside the talisman and dove into his lunch like a drowning man going down for the last time.

  “Now you’re just being cruel on purpose,” I muttered around my sandwich. “Three days, what?”

  “It’ll take three days to charge the talisman and prepare for the spell.” Thankfully, he swallowed before he answered, but he took another huge bite. I decided to hold my questions until after he finished eating.

  Logan chewed for what seemed like forever before swallowing. “So if we start preparing today, we can cast the spell on Friday.”

  Preparing. He meant sex. I wished he’d never stopped chewing. My cheeks burned. I ducked my head so he wouldn’t see me blushing. Oh, Othala, stop acting like a frightened virgin, even if you are!

  Logan could hardly have missed my discomfiture, but he focused on the remains of his sandwich.

  “Are you close to your parents?” I asked, desperate to change the subject. My father’s death lodged in the back of my mind like a splinter. If I didn’t wiggle it, the pain wasn’t bad, but awareness of that splinter never fully faded.

  “Yes,” he said, stirring some sugar into his coffee. I couldn’t help but count the spoonsful he used. Once the sugar was gone, we’d never taste it again. He set the spoon down and sighed. “Dem, we’ve got at least a five-year supply of sugar in the hold. And once it’s gone, we’ll figure something else out. There are some stevia plants on deck, and with good, magical care, we’ll never lose them.”

  I thought about that for a moment, then nodded. Forget sugar and food. Thinking about them made my heart race so hard it scared me. I drew a deep breath. “I was never close to my father. Mother’s always been there for me when I needed a parent. It’s not that Father ignored me, but he always seemed so busy that when he didn’t have to work, Mother wanted him left alone to relax.”

  “I’m sorry, Dem,” Logan said gravely.

  “Me, too.” I forced myself to finish my sandwich because I didn’t want to waste a single bite.

  Logan settled back on the bench to drink his coffee, his eyes faraway and thoughtful. I wanted to ask him to talk about the spell, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead I poured a tiny bit of milk into my coffee and a spoonful of sugar. Normally, I took two sugars in my coffee, but I wasn’t sure what stevia tasted like and a five-year sugar supply in the hold seemed awfully optimistic to me.

  Back on Galveteen, earth witches had taken over several acres of land and with the help of sea witches forced the weather and soil conditions to mimic those sugarcane favored. We always had plenty of sugar on the island. As we always had plenty of everything, most of it thanks to the witches. Why on Othala did non-magicals look down on witches so? I’d always listened to my father tell me that witches were lowly and inferior, and I’d never thought for myself on the issue. I’d just blindly believed him
.

  Shame washed over me, especially when I recalled how much I’d fought against the fact I was a witch. Instead of being proud, I’d been appalled. Truth be told, a small, childish part of me still felt humiliated at being outed. As if a dirty secret had been aired. Yet, if there were no witches on Galveteen, we’d long since have starved to death. Or been devoured by ravagers.

  “Why don’t the witches rise up? Kick the shit out of the non-magicals?” I thumped my mug down on the table so hard precious liquid sloshed over the rim, and I fought the urge to grab it up and lick the sides so nothing was wasted.

  “We’ve talked about this before. We don’t use our magic to hurt people.” Logan’s jaw jutted as if he fought anger. “Witches protect, Dem.”

  “Well, doesn’t that sound noble,” I said. “But it means you have to be looked down upon by the very people you protect. Why do you do that? Why not just keep your power for yourselves. Make non-magicals find their own food and their own electricity and all the things witch magic provides them?

  “Because they would die,” Logan said, his voice twisting. “So we’re looked down upon. Who cares what non-magicals think? We know who we are.”

  “I don’t,” I confessed with such rancor, Logan’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at me. I studied my coffee mug as if I found it fascinating, when really I couldn’t see it at all for the tears burning my eyes. “I’m not one thing or the other. I’m a fraud. In my head I know I’m a witch, but in my heart I don’t know who I am. For twenty-one years I’ve believed I was one thing, when really I was another.”

  “And are you going to spend the next twenty-one being angry and bitter about it?” Logan leaned forward to ask. “Or are you going to accept it, make it yours, and move on?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered because it was the truth.

  “Fair enough,” he said. His tone softened. “I know it’s difficult to be thrust into this world, especially since you’re not only a witch, but one marked by Othala. You haven’t been given any time at all to assimilate, and I’m sorry for that, but I can’t change anything for you, Dem, I can only try to make it as easy a transition as possible under the circumstances. And I have a dismal feeling I’m doing a shit job.”