Selkie's Revenge

by Rosanna Leo

  By all that’s holy. Not today of all days when he was unarmed.

  He lowered himself in the water, enough so that he could watch the strange occurrence but not be seen by her.

  She was a pretty wee thing, with bobbed blonde hair, and looked about thirty. She was wearing a gray hoodie and jeans, and her clothing was quickly getting soaked as the water seeped up her pant legs. Mack could make out bare feet that looked pink and painful from the cold water. Even still, the woman didn’t seem to notice the cold.

  She maneuvered atop the water, stepping through each wave, walking deeper out to sea as if held aloft. Mack fancied Jesus might have looked the same on his famous water walk. Her arms were stretched out toward something, reaching. And as much as her lovely face was bruised by agony, distorted by sorrow, her eyes appeared glassy. She seemed dazed, as if in the throes of a seizure or a night terror.

  Mack felt a rush of protectiveness swell inside him. What could make her so despondent? He didn’t have time to contemplate what could be saddening her. He was more concerned about what was suspending her above the water.

  It could only be one thing. Finman magic.

  An ominous prickle of dread infested his body. Mack looked toward the spot where the woman was headed and had to stop himself from grunting in fury. There was another figure there floating above the deeps, one he hadn’t seen at first. Mack glared, treading water, his fins slicing into the surf with fury.

  It was a finman. One with distinctive orange eyes.

  Demons of hell.

  He had no time to lose. Finmen tended to work their witchery in swift fashion, without second thought, and this one was especially slippery.

  On Orkney, storytellers often told tales of the mythical selkie and finmen, lumping them into one mythical package. But in reality, the two races were as similar as chalk and cheese. Selkie were known as lovers, living peacefully among humans. The finmen of Orkney were a race of sorcerers, feared by many. Grandmothers in Scotland would warn youngsters away from the water’s edge, saying, “The finmen will get you!” They were the Orcadian equivalent of the bogeyman, dreaded shape-shifters who could live under the sea as well as on land. They also had an unsavory penchant for abducting human women, ferrying them away to the magical island of Hildaland, and doing horrible things to them. With their powers to change shape and call up storms, it was easy to accomplish.

  This evil formed the basis of Mack’s revenge and his self-imposed hunt. For years, he’d wandered the shores, determined to not allow another woman to fall prey to the finmen. He would not let the frightful bastard get this woman.

  The blonde lass continued walking toward the finman. She might not be aware of the legends and wouldn’t be able to fight off a finman anyway. In her trance, she appeared determined to close the distance between herself and the shape-shifter, mumbling in amazement as she would to an apparition.

  Mack swam a little closer and was able to make out some of her words.

  “Luke,” she cried in a frantic outburst. “My Luke! It’s really you.”

  Mack stared and somehow felt the pain of true grief as it poured off her. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over as she blinked a few times. She looked so fragile, so broken in spirit. And this finman shit had taken advantage of her in her distress. Clearly she wasn’t seeing the dark shadow that Mack was seeing. The shape-shifting finman was making her see something altogether different.

  Someone she loved.

  “I’m coming, Luke. I’m coming,” the woman affirmed through her tears.

  The finman silently raised his fins toward her. All finmen wore cloaks to disguise their unnatural appearance. Disguised by the cloak, his fins looked like arms wrapped in flowing, black vestments. If she could see the sight before her, she’d likely cower in fear, but the finman was making her see this “Luke.”

  Mack knew he should be swimming out to meet Leda. He knew he should be taking time to figure out this whole mate problem. But he didn’t hesitate. This forlorn woman needed a savior, and he was the only one available. And he wanted a piece of this finman more than he wanted peace for his soul.

  Traditionally, selkie folk needed a human to cry seven tears into the sea to call them. Mack did not stop to count the blonde lass’ tears; she had already lost many in the waves. He cut through the surf and headed straight toward her, surfacing between her and the finman. As he sliced up through the waves, Mack slid out of his skin and pinned his furious gaze on the finman, letting him see him for the man he was.

  It was enough to get the attention of both her and the finman. The dark shape-shifter glared at the selkie, his eyes burning a virulent copper from inside his black cloak. Without a word, he lowered his fins and returned to his waiting kayak.

  Mack didn’t have time to watch the finman’s escape. As soon as the shape-shifter had lowered his fins, his spell on the woman had been broken. Mack turned, saw her pitch forward into the deep water with a scream, and saw her flounder. As she struggled to stay afloat, her arms flailed and she snatched at air. But panicked as she was, she sank like one who had rocks sewn into her hem.

  He shifted into his seal form again, knowing the seal would be quicker than the man. Machar swam as he’d never swum before, using his powerful back flippers to propel himself toward her. Within seconds, he spotted her under the dark water. Luckily, she wasn’t a large woman, and selkies were much bigger than the average seal. As a result, Mack was able to cradle her while he drove her upward for air. On and on he swam, pushing the woman ahead of him until they reached the beach. Only then did Mack permit himself a glance back to reassure himself that the finman had indeed disappeared.

  As soon as he hit dry land, Mack slid out of his selkie skin, not even caring if anyone else was around. Right now, all that mattered was that this woman survived her ordeal in the sea. He wrapped her in his selkie pelt, knowing it would warm her chilled body. She was shaking so hard it made him tremble. And she was so pale it made his heart hurt.

  She began to choke up seawater, and Mack rolled her over so she could bring it forth with as much ease as possible. As she coughed and sputtered, he held her close to his naked form, feeling a strange comfort in her nearness. He cradled her there on the beach until the spasms subsided and she began to moan.

  Inch by inch, he rolled her back so he could see her face. Two bright blue eyes stared up at him in awe and terror. “You’ll be all right, love,” he whispered to her. “You just had a spot of trouble in the water. It’s a cold day for swimming.”

  Her gaze darted toward the water, and she let out a cry when she realized the finman was no longer there. Her shoulders began to shake. “Luke! Where is he?”

  The woman fought to get out of his arms, fought to stand up, but Mack held her fast, knowing she was distraught. “Hush, now. There’s no one there.”

  She swatted at the arms holding her captive. For a wee thing, she put up a good fight. “I have to go to him! Let me go. Please. My Luke is out there.”

  Her pleas shattered his spirit, but he knew she was hallucinating. It was the sway of the finman. They could make people see whatever they damn well pleased, foul tricksters. “There’s no one out there for you. I swear it, lass. It wasn’t your Luke.”

  “No!” She beat at his chest and he let her, hoping to absorb some of her pain.

  Her wail was the most pitiful thing he’d ever heard. And even though she was pounding the hell out of him, Mack held her there on the beach until her fists finally dropped to her lap. After a few more moments, her anguished wails subsided and turned into sad sniffles. Defeated, her head fell against his chest.

  Mack knew he had to get her out of there. She’d been submerged in the freezing water, and he wanted a doctor to have a look at her. Besides, he didn’t want the finman to resurface and take another crack at her. Selkie folk were strong, but they simply didn’t possess the dark powers of the finmen. And without his arrows, he could never kill one.

  Mack slid out from under her. As the w
oman sat on the sand, rendered catatonic by her ordeal, he took the opportunity to get dressed again. Once clothed, he returned to her and picked her up. He kept her wrapped in his seal skin to ward off any chills and carried her away to his parents’ house just down the beach. He and his brothers all drove Harleys, which would make transportation to a hospital uncomfortable, but his dad had a Mustang. A bit posh, but it would do the trick.

  Mack carried her toward the Kirk home, eager to reclaim his weapons. It looked as if he’d be needing them sooner than he’d thought. And as he hurried away from the scene, he tried hard not to jostle his bundle, conscious of her racing heart.

  And all too aware of the mad thumping of his own.

  Chapter 3

  Sometime later, Mack watched the woman revive in the hospital. The doctor had confirmed there was nothing physically wrong with her, despite her fall into the drink. She was just a little dehydrated. Still, he’d agreed with Machar that it might be a good idea to let her rest in the hospital and get some fluids in her. She’d slept for a couple of hours, which Mack had been pleased to see. God only knew she needed some peace and quiet after the scene at the beach.

  Her eyelids fluttered, and he got a glimpse of pretty blue irises peeking out from under light brown lashes. Mack felt a sucker punch to his gut and frowned at the uncomfortable sensation.

  No doubt he was still winded over the impromptu rescue. He didn’t like being without his weapons. While he’d bundled the woman in his father’s car, his dad had retrieved the bow and arrows for him as his family had looked on with anxious faces. He felt better now, but only marginally.

  He allowed himself to take in her figure, covered as it was by sheets in the hospital bed. It was a lovely, pear-shaped figure, his favorite type of figure if truth be told. She was too distracting by half. Full hips and small, but sweet, breasts. Still, there was a certain gauntness to her cheeks that led Mack to believe she’d recently lost some weight. Her wrists and neckline were too delicate for his liking. She looked like she needed a good meal. A few, in fact. Biting his bottom lip, he pondered whether she was getting all the proper nutrients, until the sting of his gnawed lip brought him back to reality.

  In her daze, she began to mumble. In a soft voice, she said, “Luke. Where are you?”

  For the first time, Mack was struck by her accent. She didn’t have the brogue of an Orcadian. Hell, she wasn’t even Scottish. The woman sounded American.

  More than ever, Mack wondered who she was and how she’d ended up on an Orkney beach.

  He ran a hand over her bobbed, blonde hair, removing a few strands from her eyes. It was then he noticed she was missing some hair. Not a lot, just a couple of spots behind her left ear. The spots were no bigger than an American quarter and were camouflaged by her other hairs. But as he tucked her hair behind her ear, he couldn’t miss them. His heart went out to her. Had she lost her hair from stress or a medical problem?

  As she woke more fully, he removed his hand from her head, not wanting to scare her. She opened her eyes and looked around. As she took him in, and her surroundings, her eyes grew wider. Once again, panic flitted through her eyes. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

  Mack tried to calm her. “You’re safe. I found you on the beach. You were … in distress.”

  Out of nowhere, her face crumpled and she let out a cry of anguished fury. “You have to take me back there!” She leaned over, grabbing at him, bunching her hands up in his shirt. “You have to take me to Luke.”

  For the first time since he’d saved her, Mack was getting tired of hearing the name Luke. Who was this man who drove her to distraction? He couldn’t be anyone good to leave her like this. “You can’t go back there. It’s not safe.”

  The woman made a frantic attempt to leap out of the bed, almost knocking over several instruments in the process, but Mack held her down. “The hell I won’t. I need to get to Luke!”

  As he pinned her to the bed, Mack reached his breaking point. “Look, love. No man who beckons to you from the sea is good for you. It’s only bad news if you go back there.”

  “Please.” She fought in his grip.

  Mack swore. “I can’t return you to the beach. By St. Winifred’s knockers, woman, are you trying to top yourself?”

  Still enraged, unseeing, she continued to struggle. Desperate to calm her, Mack began to sing an old selkie song. The voice of a selkie was like the call of a siren to many a human, leaving them in an almost drugged state. He hoped it would have the same effect on her. His brother Calan was a much better singer, but he wasn’t half-bad.

  As she writhed under him, he recited the ancient lyrics, a lullaby used by his selkie mother when he was a wee pup. By the time the first verse was done, the woman had stopped moving and just stared at Mack, enrapt. He positioned her on her pillow, tucking her hair under her, singing all the while. Before long, she was asleep once again.

  Disturbed, Mack just sat and listened to the soft rhythm of her breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He took comfort in its regularity, praying the next time she woke up she’d be less overwrought and incoherent.

  While she was sleeping, Mack decided it was high time to employ another selkie trick on her. His race was adept at reading the emotions of humans, a power that had served him well over the centuries, especially when trying to discover where determined females had hidden his pelt. He put a hand on her forehead and concentrated hard on what this woman could be feeling, trying to discover the identity of the mysterious Luke and why she might have found herself on a beach with a finman who meant no good.

  What Machar saw in her mind disturbed him even more. He received no images of people, saw no history that could help him help her.

  All he saw was blackness. A torrent of despair, dragging her down into a watery hellhole. Pure, all-encompassing grief.

  * * * *

  Her eyes still closed, Beth got the sense of a tremendous shadow being lifted from her. For the first time in a long time, she had the desire to open her eyes. She did, letting them crack open.

  She was in a hospital room, one with beige walls that needed paint touch-ups and a small window looking out to a gray sky. A gray table in front of her. Beige sheets on which her pale arm lay limp. It seemed all she saw lately was tones of beige and gray, the wan colors of her new life. Anything more vibrant had been torn from her.

  So she hadn’t been dreaming.

  She sensed the man at her side before she ever saw him. She’d known he would be there too, just like in her dream. A magnetic presence who seemed to radiate peace and sensuality and the warmth of a nice bath. She turned her head toward him and almost started.

  Her vision was suddenly flooded with color.

  As she blinked a few times, her eyes adjusting to the light, she took in the hues that surrounded him. The pale pink of his lips. A dark blue Police concert T-shirt. He had the blackest eyes she’d ever seen and hair to match. His hair was wavy and thick, worn in a careless style off his high forehead, ending somewhere around his strong chin. He was a big man, dwarfing his chair, his body covered in taut muscle. Beth couldn’t help but notice how his clothing didn’t quite seem to contain his strength. His muscles threatened to burst forth from his clothes every time he moved. She dragged her gaze back up to his face. He had kind features, despite their obvious sexual power. She liked the few crinkly lines around his eyes, an indication that he smiled a lot. And his generous mouth, currently pulled tight in a serious line, still managed to look flirty. Instinct told her his was a mouth that didn’t express itself in quiet chuckles; it would open wide in hearty guffaws and huge smiles.

  He moved his hands on his lap, and her gaze fell to them. She sucked in a breath.

  He had webbed fingers but not as an animal would. The webbing between his digits was more transparent, less obvious, like gossamer threads joining the base of each long finger. It was beautiful in the way a Moorish castle might be to a visitor from another country. Foreign and exotic.

  The man s
hifted in his chair, clearly about to say something. At that moment, Beth had a vision slice through her consciousness. All of a sudden, she could see a large, black seal cutting through the waves to reach her. The vision morphed and changed until she could see a naked man, this man, picking her up out of the cold water and carrying her away.

  Obviously she’d been seeing things. The man had rescued her, but she was remembering him as an animal. Her mind was playing strange tricks on her. Or was it?

  “You saved me,” she whispered.

  “Yes, I did.”

  His voice was deep and melodic, penetrating. Just the few syllables from him made her eyelids flutter and dried out her throat. It was that Orcadian accent. There was something altogether sensual about a Scottish brogue colored with a Norse lilt. Frank had had the same melodic accent. Not that it mattered anymore. She swallowed, desperate for a drink, but all she could taste was seawater. The lingering bitter taste made her forget her need for a beverage.

  “You shouldn’t have bothered.” She turned away from the man, feeling as bruised as an overripe plum inside. She felt more pummeled than an entire truckload of plums that had been dumped onto the freeway.

  She heard him stand, pick up his chair, and drag it to the other side of her bed so he could look at her. He sat with his hands clenched together, elbows on his knees. His knuckles were white. Black eyes bore into hers. “You really want to die?”

  She didn’t answer his question, as defensive hackles rose on her back. “Who are you anyway?”

  “Machar Kirk. Call me Mack.”

  “Mack,” she whispered. It sounded like a trucker’s name, not the name of a mysterious savior. “I suppose, Mack, in a situation like this, I should thank you.”

  This time he didn’t answer her question. Instead, his gaze fell to her neck, and then he considered her face as if evaluating each angle. As if he didn’t quite know what to make of what he glimpsed there. “Why don’t you tell me who you are?”

  “Beth Pedersen.”