The angel pressed his lips into a thin line and inhaled slowly through his nose. Then he cleared his throat, his eyes never faltering from hers. “No. No, you can’t breathe underwater. You’re human now.”
Marcela blinked. She looked down at her body again, observing the two sleek, pale legs extending from her lower half. It was her body, she could see that, she knew that. Those were her legs. Still, it was as if she were looking at someone else’s flesh. The limbs didn’t…seem like hers. She looked around. Her legs weren’t the only thing that didn’t quite seem real.
She was surrounded by stone. Smooth, meticulously carved stone, with straighter lines than any she’d ever seen in her own underwater kingdom. This room had not been worn by the current, smoothed by the sea. The stone walls looked rough, as if they would feel like sand-covered wood if she touched them. A giant opening in one wall held blackened wood and ashes, similar to what was left behind after the fires that some people set on the shore during celebrations. Large windows took up one wall, offering her a view that she was in no mood to see. She turned her attention back to the tub, the small bit of water in this strange new world.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in my private rooms. In the palace.”
She looked back at the angel, her attention drawn by the confusion thick in his voice.
“Don’t you remember me bringing you here?”
“No.” She looked around again. She’d seen land dwellings, though never from the inside. It was so different from the world she knew, and yet similar in some ways.
Patricio slowly eased her back into the tub, though Marcela noticed he stayed close, his body coiled tight as if prepared to pull her up if she started to drown again. He sat on his haunches beside the tub, rubbing one hand roughly over his face. He looked tired and his movements were uneven, as if he were upset.
“Are you angry with me?”
Patricio looked at her for a moment over the tips of his fingers then lowered his hands. “No. Not really, I’m just…” He shook his head and looked her in the eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Marcela.”
He settled back to kneel beside the tub. “Are you all right?”
She thought about it, concentrating on her body. She didn’t feel any pain. Her eyebrows furrowed. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t really feel…anything.
“This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here.” She gestured at her legs. “This isn’t right.” Her head felt stuffed with sea foam, everything fuzzy and muddled if she tried to think. “I’m not sure how this happened.” She put a hand to her throat, rubbing it, surprised to find no pain. “My throat doesn’t hurt. Why does my voice sound like this?”
The angel raised his hand to caress the soft column of her throat. The touch of his fingers sent a thrill down her spine and Marcela considered him with interest. Her body was obviously attracted to him, but she remained detached, as if it were happening to someone else.
“I don’t feel any damage,” he said. “I’m not sure what’s wrong. You didn’t sound like that the other day.” He looked down at the rest of her body, those clear blue eyes seeming to take in every curve, every detail. “Maybe it’s connected to the other changes.”
Marcela looked at him closely, concentrating on her body and the way it reacted to the angel. Something about the way his gaze travelled down her body, not just her legs, but all of her—there was an appreciation there. She liked that thought, though she didn’t feel the physical response she knew she should feel.
Another memory shot into her brain. Suddenly she was on a beach, her body pressed against the angel’s side, her tail curled around him as she lowered her lips to his. She recalled the weight of his hand against the back of her head, the heat that had spread through her as she opened her mouth to him, letting him deepen the kiss with teeth and tongue. She remembered the heat, but she couldn’t feel it, not even the shadow of the memory.
“I don’t feel right.” She grasped the edges of the tub. “I feel detached. It’s like I’m dreaming.”
“You’re in shock.” He kept his tone gentle, watching her face as if monitoring her reaction. He looked at her legs again. “Whatever made you like this was probably traumatic.”
He shifted awkwardly for a moment and after a little hesitation, took one of her hands in his. Marcela tilted her head. It didn’t take a wizard to ascertain he was not used to giving comfort. She half expected him to say “there, there,” any minute.
“You arrogant fool. Are you so far gone that they aren’t even people to you anymore? Not even the women?”
The memory was as sudden as the last one had been. She remembered the words being spoken with a stranger’s voice, an accusing tone ringing out as he snarled at Patricio. Marcela bit the inside of her lip. Why had he been angry with the prince?
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Marcela leaned back. Patricio twitched forward as if to catch her and she hesitated, surprised at the intensity of his concern. Then again, why wouldn’t he be concerned about her? They’d kissed, she remembered that. It made sense that they must be close, certainly close enough for him to take care of her. A tinge of frustration flicked her nerves. Why couldn’t she feel anything?
She leaned against the back of the tub and tried to force herself to relax. Complaining wouldn’t make this better. The important thing was to stay calm and keep a clear head. She closed her eyes, trying to remember what she’d been doing before she’d found herself drowning in the prince’s tub.
“A chance to what? Fawn over me like some mindless nymph? That sort of blind devotion may feed your ego, incubus, but I’ve had my fill. I don’t want to be worshipped.”
Patricio’s voice echoed at her from the fog. She had a flash of the angel yelling at another man while she sat on a bed a few feet away.
“I’m not a mindless nymph,” she told him, opening her eyes. She turned so she could look at his face. “And I don’t want to worship you, whether you want me to or not.”
The angel’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water. Marcela waited. Part of her knew she should be offended by what she’d remembered the angel saying about her, but like everything else she didn’t feel it. They were just words she remembered, cold facts that meant nothing. Though they did indicate that the prince was rather arrogant. She frowned. If that was the type of person he was, perhaps she should leave. She had no interest in being around someone that arrogant. Maybe that’s why the other man had been so angry?
“I don’t want you to worship me.” Patricio ran a hand through his hair. “And I’m…sorry, for what I said.”
“You don’t sound sorry.” Marcela’s eyes followed the way his hair slid around his shoulders. She wanted to touch it.
Again, Patricio looked surprised. Then he shook himself. “Do you rem—”
He cut off as Marcela sat up in the tub and leaned forward to stroke a lock of his hair. Every muscle in his body tensed, until he may as well have been a statue. She idly twirled the strands of golden hair around her finger, admiring the silky softness of it.
“You have beautiful hair,” she murmured.
Patricio’s chest rose and fell, somewhat more rapidly. Something flickered inside Marcela, but it was gone before she could concentrate on it. Patricio’s hand closed around her wrist and she paused, looking up to meet his eyes.
“Do you remember anything about how you came to have legs?” He gently but firmly placed her hand on the side of the tub.
Marcela leaned back, trailing her fingers in the water. “No. I remember having fins and swimming with my sisters. But then…” She shrugged. “Nothing.” It should bother me that I can’t remember. But it doesn’t.
“What about me? Do you remember meeting me?”
Like a crash of thunder, a memory hit her. Patricio standing on a ship, a storm whipping up the wind and the waves around him, battering his wings in furious gusts and a torrential spray of saltwater. His
eyes had glowed a deep sapphire blue in the darkness. For a split second she’d sworn she saw desire in those eyes, but the moment had been shattered when a blow from the wildly swinging mast had knocked him from the ship.
She remembered how the terror had gripped her at the image of his body being swallowed by the ravenous waves, the current dragging him down to the sea floor by his wings. She’d felt she would die herself if anything bad happened to the prince. Despite the power of the memory, she felt nothing. The fog in her mind remained and she viewed the memory as an observer, detached from the reality of it.
“I remember seeing you on a ship,” she said slowly. More of the memory trickled back to her. Her arms curling under his thick biceps, her body swaying against his as she struggled to pull him above water and tow him to shore. The heat of his flesh under her hands, cooled by the sea. “I saved your life.”
Patricio leaned forward. “You did.”
She still stared into nothingness as her brain sluggishly fought to dredge up more memories.
“He was your brother. He’s dead.”
“Thank you.”
Marcela tilted her head. “You killed my brother.” Her brow furrowed. “Gaspar. He was…blackmailing sailors.” She blinked at him. “I saw you kill him.”
Patricio stiffened, but his gaze never wavered from hers. If anything, his blue eyes grew more intense, searing her with the strength of some silent plea. “Yes.”
“And I thanked you for it.”
“Yes.” His voice came out a hoarse whisper, the lines around his eyes deepening as if in pain.
“That’s not right. Is it?”
Pressure built around them, tension so thick it would dull the teeth of a dragon fish. She could feel the angel’s pulse pounding where his hand still held hers to the edge of the tub. Then he looked away, and the strange spell was broken. He released her hand.
“No,” he agreed quietly. “It isn’t right.”
She moved her legs in the water, feeling uncomfortable holding still for so long. The sensations of two moving limbs below her waist seemed odd, strange on what should have been a disturbing level. She stilled.
“If it was, it would be no fault of mine. The witch is responsible for that curse, not me.”
“The witch’s curse? Did the witch’s curse do this to me?”
She stared at her legs, fighting to remember more. There was a strangled sound to her left and then Patricio shot to his feet. The feathers on his enormous wings ruffled as if he were agitated and he gave a vicious tug on his hair then whirled around and strode toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Marcela called out.
“I’m going to have some clothes sent up for you. There’s someone you need to see.”
Chapter Six
Patricio cursed as wind buffeted his body and threatened to roll him midair. He gritted his teeth and tilted into the current, snapping his wings to adjust. If he didn’t get out of his head and pay attention to flying, he was going to end up sending them both crashing to the ground.
Marcela’s arms tightened around him, pressing the taunting softness of her flesh more tightly against his body. He inhaled deeply through his nose, fighting off the urge to shift his grip, to fill his palms with her generous curves. Despite everything that had happened, all the reasons he knew he should get as far away from the woman as possible, his body had other ideas entirely. With every passing second, it grew harder and harder for him to resist dipping his head and tasting her again, seeing if the reality was anything like the memory that taunted him at night. She couldn’t possibly taste as sweet as his memory would have him believe, feel as decadent to hold as he remembered.
“You look angry.”
Her throaty voice went straight to his groin, stirring even more heat until he found himself wondering at the logistics of sex in midair. He growled in frustration and then cursed himself as she tensed in his arms.
“I’m not angry.” His voice was rough even to his own ears. “I’m…” He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. As he opened his eyes again, he felt calmer, if only a little. “I want to help you get back home.”
Marcela rested her head against his shoulder. “I appreciate the help. I’m sorry I’ve inconvenienced you.”
Patricio pressed his lips into a thin line. Marcela’s voice was still hollow, empty of emotion. As much as he wanted to blame her for her own misfortune, because he had little doubt she’d sought this new body as a means of getting close to him, he couldn’t ignore the horror of what had been done to her. Even if whoever had taken her tail hadn’t known about the real reason behind her desire for the change, they should have treated such a dramatic request with skepticism.
He looked down at the approaching forest, searching for the witch’s hut. He wondered what the old hag would have to say about her curse now, now that she’d be forced to see for herself what evil it caused others. Where would her holier-than-thou judgment be when she saw the damaged mermaid, heard the horrifying emptiness in her voice? He nearly smiled.
Once he spotted the small structure that housed the miserable magic wielder, he circled around, easing the descent for his delicate passenger. Finally he touched down, crushing the tender grass beneath him. He kept his wings arched high over his head, intentionally making himself appear larger and more intimidating. With the forest at his back, he peered across the small swath of emerald green grass to the little cottage at the edge of the village, tucked away by the trees of the forest that stood between the path up the slope to the castle and the main village at the foot of the mountain.
The door swung open.
“Now, now, I’m telling you, go home and get some rest. Little Sarah will be absolutely fine here with me. Take a nap and come back after you’re refreshed.”
The witch’s voice grated like rusty metal over Patricio’s skin and he curled his lip in disgust as the witch strolled out of her house, cradling a baby in her arms. She was dressed in her usual black peasant dress with a light black shawl embroidered with intricate patterns in silver thread. The shawl ruffled in the breeze, momentarily baring an ear void of any decoration. A young woman followed the witch out, wringing her hands.
“I’m not sure.” The young woman’s eyes flicked from the witch to her baby. “My mother-in-law says—”
“Bah!” the witch snorted. “Senora Mata. Smug old woman has forgotten all about what it’s like to be a new mum. Now you listen to me, you need to take care of yourself. You can’t be a good mum if you’re stumbling about like a zombie, glaring at the child as if she’s done you a grave disservice with her birth. Now, get some sleep and when you come back, I’ll have a nice stew all ready for you. I’m also going to have a word with some of the other ladies, so don’t you worry about cooking for the next few weeks.”
Tears streamed down the young woman’s face as she slowly backed down the path that led toward the village. “Thank you, Mother Hazel.”
“Think nothing of it, dear, just get some rest. This beautiful young miss and I have some gardening to do, don’t we, my precious?” She lifted the baby girl in her arms and cooed at her, smiling as the child animatedly waved her arms and legs, her little white dress billowing in the breeze.
Patricio set Marcela down and crossed his arms, glowering at the witch. She could play all she liked, she wouldn’t fool him. She was an evil wretch and one day he’d figure out how to see through her glamour to the black soul he knew lay beneath her ‘old mother’ façade.
When the new mother had reached the end of the witch’s yard and was weaving her way back down the road to the village, the witch turned. The sagging lines of her face were contorted into some sort of silly face for the baby and she wrinkled her nose and made cooing sounds. Reddish hair silvered with age, but still brushed and well kept under her shawl teased her forehead. Her brown eyes alighted on Patricio immediately and he suspected she’d sensed his arrival long before she’d turned around. After looking at him for only a moment, she turned b
ack to the child.
“Let’s go in and start that stew, shall we little one? Then we’ll come outside and you can see how many weeds you can fit in that adorable little fist.”
“You’ve committed a grave wrong, witch,” Patricio announced, letting his voice boom across the grass.
The witch paused, easing the child onto her shoulder and patting her back. “Have I killed anyone?”
Patricio clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to draw his sword. “No, but you may as well have.” He gestured toward Marcela who stood there quietly observing her surroundings. “This is Marcela. She’s a mermaid. Thanks to your curse, she traded her fins for legs and now she’s so traumatized she hardly reacts to anything at all.”
The witch’s eyes sharpened and she strode forward, moving like a hawk diving for a sparrow. She stopped in front of Marcela, squinting at her. “You’re a mermaid?”
Divine Scales Page 8