Reason, she reminded herself. Refusing a cup of coffee is not reasonable. Mutely, she nodded and was rewarded with a warm look.
Once he walked away, she sat down and watched him wind through the crowd. He didn’t seem fazed by the people jostling him or the crowded tables. He moved through the room easily, unnaturally so. Several times, he glanced at her and at the people seated around her— attentive without being possessive.
Why does it matter? She looked at him with an unfamiliar longing, knowing he wasn’t really hers, knowing she didn’t want to be tied to him but still feeling a strange wistfulness. Is it a selchie thing? She forced her gaze away and started thinking again of what to say, which questions to ask, how to undo the mess they were in. A few minutes later, and again without any visible effort, Murrin moved through the crowd until he reached her, balancing two cups and a plate atop each one. The first plate had a thick sandwich; the second one was stacked high with brownies, cookies, and squares of chocolate. He handed her the mocha.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He nodded, sat down, and slid the plates to the center of the table between them. “I thought you might want to eat something.”
She looked at the plate of desserts and the sandwich.
“This is all for me?”
“I didn’t know what you’d like best.”
“You to leave,” she said.
His expression was serious. “I can’t do that. Please, Alana, you need to understand. This is how it’s been for centuries. I didn’t intend for you to be entrapped, but I can’t walk away. I am not physically able to do so.”
“Could you take it back? Your, umm, skin?” She held her breath. He looked at her sadly again; his eyes seemed as wetblack as the sea at night. “If I find it where you’ve hidden it without you intending me to do so. Pure coincidence. Or if I’m angry enough to search after you’ve struck me three times. Yes, there are ways, but it’s not likely. You can’t help hiding it, and I can’t search for it without cause.”
Alana had suspected—known—it wasn’t something she could easily escape, but she still needed to ask, to hear him tell her. She felt tears sting her eyes. “So what do we do?”
“We get to know each other. I hope you discover you want me to be near you. You hope I say something that helps you find a way to get rid of me.” He sounded so sad when he said it that she felt guilty. “That, too, is how it’s been for centuries.”
The next hour passed in fits and starts of conversation.
Periodically, Alana relaxed. Murrin could see that she was enjoying herself, but each time she noticed she was doing so, he saw a shadow of irritation flit over her face, and she put her walls back up. She swayed toward him, but then darted away from him. Hers was a strong will, and as much as he respected it, he despaired that her strength was set against him.
He watched the tilt of her head when she was listening; he heard the rhythm of her words when she spoke of her life on shore. He knew that it was a conscious machination— that she was assessing the situation in order to get free of him. But he had learned patience and flexibility in the sea. Those were skills that every selchie needed in order to survive. Murrin’s father had warned that they were equally essential in relationships, and though Murrin hadn’t thought he’d follow his father’s way, he’d listened. Tonight he was glad he had.
Finally, the shop was empty of everyone but them, and Alana was yawning.
“You need to rest, Alana.” He stood and waited for her. Her eyes were fatigue-heavy. Perhaps a good night’s sleep would help them both.
She didn’t look at him, but her guard was low enough that she accepted his hand—and gasped softly when she did.
Murrin froze, waiting for her to determine their next action. He had no answer, no clue how to respond. No one had warned him that the mere touch of her hand would evoke such a feeling: he’d fight until his last breath to keep her near him, to keep her safe, to make her happy. It was akin to the sea, this feeling that pulled at him. He’d drown under the weight of it, the enormity of it, and he’d not object as he did so. Alana tried not to react to the feel of his hand in hers, but there was something right in the sensation; it was like feeling the universe snap into order. Peace, an always elusive sensation, was filling her. She found that on the reef, under the full moon, but it wasn’t a feeling she experienced around people. She let go of his hand briefly—he didn’t resist—
and the feeling ebbed. But it was like watching the sea run away from her, seeing the water escape somewhere she couldn’t follow. The water would flee even if she tried to grasp it, but unlike the sea, this felt like something almost tangible. She grabbed his hand and stared at their entwined fingers. He was tangible.
And of the sea . . .
She wondered if that was why she felt this way— touching him was the same as touching the sea. She ran her thumb over his knuckles. His skin was no different than hers. Now, at least. The thought of him shifting into something else, something not-human, was almost enough to make her let go again. Almost.
“I won’t hurt you, Alana.” He was speaking then, murmuring words in a rhythmic way that was so very not-human.
She shivered. Her name had never sounded so beautiful.
“People don’t use names with every sentence.”
He nodded, but his expression was guarded, carefully empty. “Would you prefer that I don’t? I like your name, but I could—”
“Never mind. Just . . . I don’t know. . . . I don’t like this.”
She gestured at their hands, at him, and back at herself, but she held on to him as they left the coffee shop. She was so tired, so confused, and the only moment of peace she’d felt was when she’d touched his skin.
Once they were outside, she shifted topics again.
“Where will you stay?”
“With you?”
She laughed before she could help herself. “Umm, I don’t think so.”
“I can’t be too far from you now, Alana. Think of it as a leash. My reach only extends so far. I can sleep outside.”
He shrugged. “We don’t exactly stay in houses most of the time. My mother does, but she’s . . . like you. I stay with her some. It’s softer, but it’s not necessary.”
Alana thought about it. She knew her mother wouldn’t care: Susanne was utterly without what she liked to call “hang-ups,” but it felt like admitting defeat to let him crash on her sofa. So I tell him to sleep outside like an animal? He is an animal though, isn’t he? She paused; he stopped walking, too.
What am I thinking to even consider letting him in my home? He wasn’t human, but an animal. Who knew what sort of rules he lived by—or if he even had rules or laws. She was no different from her mother: swayed by empty words, letting strange men into her haven.
But he’d trapped her. And he wasn’t the only one who’d tried. Something odd was happening, and she didn’t like it. She let go of his hand and moved away from him.
“Who was the guy at the bonfire trying to give me his skin? Why were both of you . . . He said you were worse and . . .” She looked at him, at his face. “And why me?”
Murrin couldn’t speak, couldn’t process anything beyond the fact that his brother had tried to lure away his intended mate. He knew as soon as it happened that Veikko had taken Murrin’s Other-Skin and laid it where Alana had found it, but he hadn’t thought Veikko had approached her, too. Why did he? Veikko still had rare bursts of pique over Zoë’s leaving, but they’d talked about it. He said he understood . . . so why was he speaking with my Alana?
Murrin wondered if he ought to assure Veikko that Alana would be safe, that she was not like Zoë, that she would not be lost in a potentially fatal depression. Perhaps he was trying to protect Alana? And me? That would make more sense to Murrin, but for the almost certain fact that Veikko had been responsible for putting Murrin’s Other-Skin in Alana’s path. No other selchies had been on the shore.
None of this makes sense . . . nor is it something to share
now. It was far more complicated than Alana needed to deal with on top of everything else, so Murrin quashed his confusion and suspicions and said, “Veikko is my brother.”
“Your brother?”
Murrin nodded.
“He scared me.” She blushed when she said it, as if fear were something to be ashamed of, but the open admission was only a blink. Alana was still angry. Her posture was tense: hands clenched, spine straight, eyes narrowed. “He said you were worse, and that he’d be back. He—”
“Veikko—Vic—is a bit outdated in his interactions with . . . humans.” Murrin hated having to use the word, but it was unavoidable. He was not what she was, would never be what she was. It was something they needed to acknowledge. Murrin stepped closer. Despite her anger, she was in need of comfort.
“Why did he say you were worse?”
“Because I wanted to get to know you before I told you what I was. None of this was intentional. My OtherSkin was . . .” He paused, considered telling her that he suspected that Veikko had entrapped her, and decided against it. There were many years in which Alana and Veikko would be forced to be near each other: with a simple omission, the strife of her resenting him was avoidable. “It was not to be there. You were not to be there. I was coming to meet you, to try to date you as humans do.”
“Oh.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But . . .”
“Vic thinks I am ‘worse’ than others in my family because I am going against tradition . .
. or was hoping to.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “He thinks it is worse that I would try to court you and then reveal myself. Not that it matters now. . . .”
“How is that worse?”
“I’ve been asking that question for years.” He held out his hand. “It is not what I will teach my children . . . one day when I become a father. It is not what I wanted, but we are together now. We’ll work it out.”
She took his outstretched hand in hers. “We don’t have to stay together.”
He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer for a moment.
Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. I don’t do relationships, Murrin.” Her fingertips stroked his hand absently.
“I didn’t mean to trap you, but I’m not eager to let go, either.” He expected her to argue, to grow angry, but like the sea, her moods weren’t quite what he anticipated. She smiled then, not like she was unhappy, but like she was dangerous. “So I guess I need to convince you then.”
She really is perfect for me.
Over the next three weeks, little by little, Alana’s doubts were replaced by a tentative friendship. It doesn’t hurt to be nice to him. It’s not his fault. She started telling herself that they could be friends. Even if she couldn’t get rid of him, she didn’t necessarily need to date him, and she definitely didn’t need to marry him.
One night, she woke with a start in the middle of the night, shivering and thinking of Murrin. They were friends. Okay, he was crashing on her sofa, and he did share her meals, but that wasn’t a commitment. It was practicality. He had nowhere to go. He couldn’t sleep on the beach. And he bought the groceries, so he wasn’t mooching. He was just . . . a good friend who was always there.
And he makes me happy.
She went into the living room. Murrin was standing in front of the window, eyes closed, face upturned. The expression on his face was one of pain. She was beside him before she’d thought twice about it.
“Murrin?”
He turned and looked at her. The longing in his eyes was heartstoppingly awful, but he blinked and it was gone. “Are you ill?”
“No.” She took his hand and led him away from the window. “Are you?”
“Of course not.” He smiled, and it would’ve been reassuring if she hadn’t seen the sadness still lingering in his eyes.
“So, what’s up?”
“Nothing.” He gestured toward her bedroom doorway.
“Go ahead. I’m good.”
She thought about it, about him being away from his family, his home, everything familiar. All they talked about was what she wanted, what made her happy, how she felt. He had just as much upheaval, more even. “Talk to me. We’re trying to be friends, right?”
“Friends,” he repeated. “Is that what we are going to be?”
And she paused. Despite the weirdness, she wasn’t feeling uncomfortable anymore. She touched his cheek and let her hand linger there. He was a good person. She said, “I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“Nor am I.” He leaned his face into the palm of her hand. “But . . . I’m trying to be careful.”
She put her hands on his shoulders and went up on her tiptoes. The touch of her hand against his skin was enough to make the world settle into that wondrous sense of completion that it always did. Over the last couple of days, she’d let her fingertips brush against his arm, bumped her shoulder into him—little touches to see if it was always so perfect. It was. Her heart was racing now though.
He didn’t move.
“No promises,” she whispered, and then she kissed him—and that feeling of bliss that she’d brushed with every touch of his skin consumed her. She couldn’t breathe, move, anything but feel.
Murrin watched Alana warily the next day. He wasn’t sure what had happened, if it meant anything or if she was just feeling sympathy. She’d been very clear in her insistences that they were friends, just friends, and that friends was all they ever could be. He waited, but she didn’t mention the kiss—and she didn’t repeat it. Perhaps it was a fluke.
For two more days, she acted as she had before The Kiss: she was kind, friendly, and sometimes brushed against him as if it were an accident. It never was; he knew that. Still, she didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.
On the third day, she flopped down next to him on the sofa. Susanne was out at a yoga class—not that it would’ve mattered. Susanne seemed inordinately pleased that Alana wanted him to stay with them; Murrin suspected Susanne wouldn’t object to him sharing Alana’s room. It was Alana who set the boundaries—the same Alana who was currently sitting very close, staring at him with a bemused smile.
“I thought you liked kissing me the other night,” she said.
“I did.”
“So . . .”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“We can pretend what we are is friends . . . but we’re dating. Right?” She toyed with the edge of her shirt.
He waited for several breaths, but she didn’t say anything else. So he asked, “What about your plan to convince me to leave?”
“I’m not sure anymore.” She looked sheepish. “I can’t promise forever, or truthfully, next month, but I think about you all the time. I’m happier around you than I’ve ever been in my life. There’s something . . . magical when we touch. I know it’s not real, but . . .”
“It’s not real?” he repeated.
“It’s a selchie thing, right? Like the urge to pick up the Other-Skin.” She paused. Her next words came out in a rush. “Does it work both ways?”
She was close enough that it would be only natural to pull her into his arms. So he did. He lifted her onto his lap and threaded his fingers through her hair. He let the tendrils tangle around his fingers.
“It’s not a selchie thing at all,” he told her, “but it does flow both ways.”
She started to pull back. “I thought it was just . . . you know . . . a magic thing.”
He cradled her head in his hand, holding her close, and said, “It is magic. Finding a mate, falling in love, seeing her love you back? That’s real magic.”
And his Alana, his mate, his perfect match didn’t move away. She leaned close enough to kiss . . . not in sympathy or misplaced emotion, but in affection. Everything is perfect. He wrapped his arms more securely around her and knew that, despite his inability to court her before they were bound, it was all going to be fine. She hadn’t said the words, but she loved him.
My Alana, my mate . . .
The next evening, Murrin took the bag of pearls to the jeweler his family had always gone to see. Davis Jewels closed in a few minutes, but the jewel man and his wife never objected to Murrin’s visits. Mr. Davis smiled when Murrin walked in. “Let me ring Madeline, and tell her I’ll be late.”
Mr. Davis went to the door, locked it, and set the security system. If Murrin closed his eyes, he could watch the older man’s steps in his memory, and they’d not vary from what was happening in front of him.
When Mr. Davis went to call his wife, Murrin waited at the counter. He unfolded the cloth he carried for such trips and tipped the bag’s contents on to the smooth material. Mr. Davis finished his call and opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he’d intended to say fled when he looked at the counter. He walked over, glancing only briefly at Murrin, attention fixed on the pearls. “You’ve never brought this many. . . .”
“I need to make a purchase as well this time.” Murrin gestured at the glass cases in the store. “I am . . . marrying.”
“That’s why the necklace. I wondered.” Mr. Davis smiled, his face crinkling into a maze of lines as thick as the fronds of kelp, beautiful in his aging skin. Here was a man who understood love: Mr. Davis and his wife still looked at each other with a glow in their eyes.
He went in the back of the store and brought out a case with the pearl necklace. It was strung with pearls Murrin had selected over many years.
For Alana.
Murrin opened it and ran his fingertip over them.
“Perfect.”
Mr. Davis smiled again, then he took the pearls from the cloth over to his table to examine them. After years of buying pearls from Murrin’s family, the man’s examination of the pearls—studying their size, shape, color, and lustre—was cursory, but still a part of the process.
The order of the jeweler’s steps was as familiar as the currents to Murrin. Usually, he waited motionless while the man went about his routine. This time, he stared into the display cases.
When Mr. Davis came over, Murrin gestured at the rows of solitary stones on plain bands. “Help me select one of those?”
The jeweler told Murrin how much he’d pay for the pearls and added, “I don’t know how much of that you want to spend.”
Love is Hell Page 15