"I'll come right now," she said. "Give me a couple of hours."
Chapter Four
Culled had predicted that Lyle would backtrack. He insisted he and Cully could talk on the phone, or it could wait. Cully bought none of it, especially after she'd established that Ben had run out, leaving Lyle fretting. She'd let Lyle down too many times in the past. This time, as her dragon rocketed through the night, she vowed she would be there, come what may.
On her approach to Lyle's hometown, she spotted him perched on a breakwater on an otherwise deserted beach. He was lit by the prom illuminations, and he'd evidently been swimming because his hair was dripping wet. He wore only a specially-tailored wetsuit, a recent creation of his, and kicked his legs restlessly. His fins drooped, though the instant he spotted her coming in for a water landing, he jolted ramrod straight. She pushed her senses onto ever higher alert.
Even if Lyle's mood was low, she didn't trust him not to play some silly trick. Nevertheless, she managed a triple loop-the-loop—she really couldn't help herself—then a smooth and nigh splash-free glide through the waves. She surfed into the shallows and shifted into fully-human form before wading toward the beach.
Okay, so it seemed Lyle wasn't in the temper for japes. Once free of the water, she clothed herself in her usual skin-tight black garb and a pair of cute golden sneakers. Then she tripped over the laces, landing on her hands and knees with a crunch.
"You bastard!" she shouted. He'd magicked her laces together.
Lyle smirked. "You were asking for it."
She rose, brushed herself down, and glared red-hot pokers at him.
"I wasn't going to bother," said Lyle, "but a triple bloody loop-the-loop? You're such a tragic show off. Besides, the tiniest bit of magic can have as seismic effect as the greatest. You can't imagine the hours of entertainment I gained from mucking about with folks' shoelaces in Shanty Wood."
"I should kick your skinny arse for this." She laughed anyway.
"You'll have to catch me first," he said, "which I doubt you can."
Lyle braced for her to lunge at him, no doubt prepared to shapeshift, flee, or attempt to give her arse a playful kicking. Ready to do something, anything, other than confess the reason he'd needed her.
She folded her arms and grounded herself on the sloping shale. "Quit messing around. I want to know what's going on."
He lowered his gaze and kicked his legs again. "It's nothing. Ben's been huffy because of this interview. When he learned he'd not got the job, he just took off. Honestly, you didn't have to come all this way. I'm being a drama llama, like Ben always says I am."
Cully bristled. She'd been wary of Ben when they'd first met, considering him fussy and controlling, but had learned to trust his love for Lyle. She might have forgiven Ben his insensitive judgement of her brother's emotional nature if it hadn't been for the fact that Ben had more power over Lyle than she liked these days. Cully hated that Lyle was dependent on Ben for the magic he needed to live the life he loved.
"Lyle?" She touched his knee. "There's more to this, isn’t there? Please tell me."
A breaking wave replied in Lyle's stead, echoed by the grinding of the undertow. Cully magicked up a bottle of Grand Vin de Bordeaux and two perfect bowl-shaped wine glasses, which landed with a chink on the breakwater beside Lyle. "Will that loosen your tongue?" she asked.
"I'm afraid you'll have to try harder to impress me these days," he said. "Even Ben can conjure glasses now. Sort of."
Cully raised her brows sharply. "I've never heard of a human executing our kind of magic before."
He shrugged but said nothing more. Even after she'd poured the wine, she talked more than he did. She shared the news of her emergency visit to Bella, which made him hiss nervously. Like Cully—and Ben, since he'd assumed the mantel of the Dragon Rider—Lyle was anxious for the family to find a permanent safe haven.
When Lyle finally began to spill all about Ben, she figured she might've well conjured a cruder beverage than her version of France's best vintage. The first few months of Lyle's marriage, as she'd observed at the time, had been bliss. The news of what'd happened in the past few weeks, however, turned the fragrant wine to vinegar on her tongue.
"Ben's been acting oddly," said Lyle. "Most of the time, he's still lovely, but sometimes… he's not himself. I think it has something to do with Clewell's sword. At first, his having it was wonderful. Not only did it give him magic to pass onto me, but it made him… well, certainly even more horny that usual, and I could hardly complain about that. But lately, he prefers being alone with the sword to being with me. Tonight, he just took off, carrying the thing in his sports bag. And he's so damned grumpy. Everything I do is wrong."
Cully winced. "That might be the way Ben is, now you've got to know him properly."
"No." Lyle shook his head adamantly. "It's subtle, but he's changed. I had this vision, you see, on our wedding night. I saw Ben wearing a suit of armour, and he was grave and distant. It felt like I didn't know him at all, and I think, somehow, that was a flash of things to come."
"You'd had a lot to drink that night," Cully pointed out. Nobody in the family since Prince Clewell himself had possessed the talent to divine the future, and she severely doubted Lyle could.
"It wasn't the champagne speaking," said Lyle. "What I saw was real, but I was so happy then, it was easy to push it aside. Now I can't. I need to find out who delivered the sword to us on our wedding night, how the magic got inside it, and why it's screwing up my husband. Will you help me?"
Cully couldn't bring herself to rearticulate what she still suspected. That Ben was simply doing what many folk did when they gained power over another—abusing it. Lyle's obvious misery cut her to the quick. He didn't deserve this, not after all he'd been through.
"I suppose the magic could've altered him somehow," she said, fighting an overwhelming urge to hug him. "I feel different in my dragon form, so maybe the sword is having a similar effect on Ben. Heightening certain traits he already had, like his bossiness around you, and that sort of thing?"
"Perhaps," said Lyle. "I'm different when I'm a dragon. I'm still me, but I'm more possessive, among other things, and Ben's definitely become more intense lately. He claims its stress, and I expect Bella's latest hassles will only make things worse."
"Alright." Cully squeezed his thigh with a decisive vigour. "Leave this with me. The best place to search for clues about the sword would be—"
"—back in Clewell's palace." He finished her sentence with a bone-rattling shudder.
"I guess so. Not my favourite spot to return to, but it'll be fine." She didn't have great memories of the caves where she'd slaughtered the gang of merfolk who'd kidnapped Lyle in a vengeful blast of dragon fire. Her dragon's protective instincts toward Lyle were strong, so she'd learned that night. Still, seeing as Ben had both found the sword in the palace and then left it there, prior to its mysterious reappearance on the wedding night, it was definitely her first port of call. "I might avoid the passage with the charred bodies, though."
Without a word, Lyle slid from the breakwater and ran down into the sea. Cully hastened after. He dived into the breakers, legs kicking. Then, in their place, his lustrous fishtail flicked, and he was gone.
"Shit." She splashed in and chased after, changing simultaneously into her mermaid form. She understood that memories of that night were painful to Lyle, but she'd never got why he was so touchy about what she'd done to his kidnappers, who'd tortured him and stolen his ability to draw magic. And where the heck had he gone? She swirled the murky waters for several minutes before surfacing.
"Lyle!" she yelled, as she untangled manky seaweed from her hair. Maybe Ben was right concerning Lyle's propensity for drama. "What are you playing at?"
She located him a short while later, sitting on the shingle and hurling pebbles into the sea.
"Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?" she asked, as she emerged from the waters. Lyle pitched a rock
rather too close to one of her fins for comfort. He'd got his waterproof phone laid in his lap.
"Ben texted," he said matter-of-factly. "He says he's sorry and is coming to find me, so I suppose all is well. You might as well leave."
"Lyle, what's wrong? What've I done?"
His glare withered her, so she settled beside him, drawing her knees up. The best thing to do would be to stay quiet and listen. Still, she entwined one of her fins through his, sending a fizzle of magic his way.
You can always come away with me, Lyle. I'll find a way to share my power, and we won't have to have sex to do it. I'll take good care of you.
He turned all the more rigid and tugged his fin away.
"I learned a few things from my kidnappers last year," he said at length. "Not much, but I got an idea about some of the enchanted mantras and dark curses, all the stuff you and I never learned. And I gleaned a little about Prince Clewell. Our ancestor wasn't a good prince, Cully, and all Ben's magic comes from Clewell's sword. It's not like ours, drawn directly from the tides and moon. Maybe Clewell's evil is somehow rubbing off on Ben. Or perhaps I'm being ridiculous."
"I suppose it's possible," said Cully. "It's not a terrible theory, but that's all it is until we know more." Her frown deepened as a question occurred that baffled her equally. "Why do you think your kidnappers told you so much? It seems rather odd."
"Oh, that's easy." With a vicious crack of his wrist, Lyle chucked another rock. "Our mother pitied me, I believe, in her own warped fashion."
Cully whipped to face him. "You what? Our mother?" She hadn't thought about Clem for years, preferring to assume the mother who'd deserted them as children was dead. "What's she got to do with all this?"
"Plenty," he said. "You see, you incinerated our dearest mama. She was one of the gang. I should've let you know sooner, I guess."
"You guess? You bloody well guess?" Cully was bracing him by the shoulders, shaking him hard, before she realized what she was doing. He didn't seem to give a damn; he went limp as a reed and let his hair flop forward, covering his eyes. He laughed in her face, hollow and nasty.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, choked.
He cackled again, as if she'd added the punchline to some joke. Why was he doing this? Why was he tormenting her? She'd thought—hoped—he'd needed her, and she'd truly yearned to help. Granted, she now comprehended why he'd acted so oddly that night she'd rescued him, though it wouldn't have changed much. She'd still have wanted to avenge his torturers, although…
Oh hell! She mightn't have cherished memories of her mother, but matricide had never made her "things to do before I hit two-hundred-years-old" list.
Lyle remained unresponsive, save more unpleasant sniggers. Cully's patience ran dry. She should have been setting the sheets aflame with Judith, or at least surfing the web to help Bella. The last soul she should be wasting time on was the brother who held out on something as important as their mother's death. As disgusted with herself as with him, she let him go.
"I'll call you," she said briskly, hauling herself up before turning her back. She assumed her dragon form, and soared off, under the ocean this time, seeking the coolness and blackness of the deeps.
No doubt she would drop Lyle a line… but maybe not for a little while.
Chapter Five
Lyle watched Cully plunge beneath the surface, his veins throbbing with a self-loathing he'd not experienced in some time. He felt as if he'd leaped outside his body and was staring in disbelief at his spite. Once she'd gone, he threw himself flat on the stones and fixed his frustration upon the clouded night sky.
He'd never intended to tell Cully about their mother's death in such a cruel fashion. At least, not since the horrible night it'd happened, and then Ben's devastating kindness had brought him back from the brink. Yet when the opportunity had raised itself this evening, it'd felt like the bad old days—the decades he'd passed in Shanty Wood. All he'd dreamed of was revenge, despite being helpless to seize it. He felt pretty damned helpless again now.
At least then he'd been able to draw his own magic.
He massaged his temples, and from his core, he reached out tentatively toward the rising tide. Maybe this time it would be different. Perhaps he'd begun to heal and would no longer be so reliant on Ben. But the sea's answer was the same as it'd been since November, when his abilities had been taken from him—like a raptor plucked the flesh from his innards, tweaking and tearing and stabbing him. He clutched his stomach and dry retched.
Brow dripping with cold sweat, he threw himself flat again. No, today wasn't that day. The day he could draw magic without the sensation of having his guts ripped out would probably never come again.
"Lyle." It was Ben, crunching across the shingle and bearing down on Lyle. "There you are," said Ben. "Why are you lying down like that? Are you okay?"
Ben raked his fingers through his thick, dishevelled hair, concern writ large on his handsome features. Lyle might've trusted everything was perfect again between them, if it hadn't been for that Gods-forsaken tennis bag Ben carried. The thick red strap cut diagonally across Ben's body, reminding Lyle—as if he could forget—how dependent he was on Ben and that thing inside it for the fundamentals of his existence.
Struggling not to betray his tremors, Lyle wiped his mouth and sat up. Ben carefully removed the hated bag, sank down beside Lyle, and slipped an arm about Lyle's waist.
"Sorry," whispered Ben, as Lyle leaned into his warmth, too weakened to help himself. "I don't know why I snapped like that. Sometimes I honestly can't explain how I act. I'll try harder. Uh, and I made you something, using magic. I'm proud of it, actually."
Ben reached into the pocket of his anorak, pulled out a comb, and handed it to Lyle. It was feather-light and patterned like a smudgy orange tortoiseshell. Even in the limited light, the lighter parts sparkled like quartz.
"You magicked this up?" Lyle was torn between wonder at the gift and misery at how fast Ben's skills had caught up with his own.
Ben blushed and offered a modest smile. "I hope it doesn't break as quickly as the glasses did. I've been reading so many stories about merfolk and their combs lately, I can't believe I've not gifted you one before."
Lyle always had plenty of combs and brushes, which these days he supplemented with as many expensive hair products as he could get his fins on. He'd room for one more, particularly such a decorous present. He turned it over in his hands, willing the kind gesture to thwart his bitterness. "It's beautiful, darling. Thank you."
Lyle met Ben's gaze, and Ben's loving earnestness shattered Lyle like an earthquake, setting his fears spinning in a whole new direction. Perhaps he, Lyle, was the problem here, not Ben. Lyle resented Ben's new magical powers, and how daft was that? Ben hadn't set out to gain skills in that department. Indeed, apart from the odd badly chosen gift and harassed outburst, Ben hadn't done much wrong. It was Lyle running off and getting himself kidnapped that'd caused this awkward situation between them. The matter that Ben now sustained Lyle's magic was neither Ben's fault nor a bad thing.
Yes, in that strange vision back on their wedding night, Ben had been a stern-faced warrior, who had, frankly, terrified Lyle. What of it? Ben's concern for Lyle's family rendered him a hero, and heroes often had to be grave. There's nothing the matter with us, save my nasty suspicions. All our troubles are a fictional melodrama, swirling in my silly drama llama brain. He rested his head down onto Ben's shoulder, and Ben dropped a soft kiss to his hair. "I'll try to be more understanding about everything," said Lyle.
For a short while, he savoured only their closeness and Ben's heartbeat, which resonated steadily through him. At least his argument with Cully meant she wouldn't go poking around caves and asking questions about the sword on his behalf, doubtless a waste of time anyway. He regretted calling her now because everything was alright. It was. It really, really was.
"By the way," said Lyle, at length, if just to distract from his niggles. "Cully's been in touch. There's
been a bit of trouble." He explained what'd happened with Bella and the photographer. By the time he finished his account—omitting Cully's visit and their fallout—he wished he'd saved the news for tomorrow.
"If it's not one thing it's another," grumbled Ben, jumping to his feet and hauling the wretched tennis bag onto his shoulder. "We better go home, although I doubt I'll be getting to bed any time soon. I'll call Cully to see how I can help."
"It's really late," said Lyle, taking the hand Ben offered to pull him up. "You don't have to do anything right now."
"You're wrong," said Ben, tightening his grip until Lyle winced at the pressure. "I have to act. I'm the Dragon Rider."
Ben kept good to his stark words, and the next morning, Lyle awoke alone in the empty bed he'd drifted uneasily off in. He found Ben slumped over his tablet at the breakfast bar, asleep with his head rested on his arms, and his sword laid out besides. Ben's grumpiness on being roused, chased with a heartfelt apology, set the pattern for their existence over the next couple of weeks.
Ben spent more time than ever studying merfolk lore, or alone with his sword. He practiced magic as often as possible too, and his abilities improved every day. Lyle tried not to be envious, allowing himself to be placated by the gifts Ben conjured for him—clothes, wine, and art products, but mercifully no more harnesses or the like. All the while, Ben monitored the illicit shot of Bella as it was reposted across the internet, a duty which Lyle, and no doubt Cully, was truly grateful for. According to Ben, curious mermaid spotters had headed to the Cornish coast in droves. Cully had been forced to move the family four more times in the past fortnight.
Not that Lyle had heard from Cully personally since that night on the beach, when he'd driven her away. He was still kicking himself for how he'd acted. Indeed, with Ben constantly preoccupied, Lyle gleaned his greatest pleasure from his job. The bustle in the ice-cream parlour kept his mind from Ben's increasingly obsessive behaviour and his own fractiousness and jealousy.
The Isle of Eternal Happiness Page 3