Wickedly Wonderful

by Deborah Blake

  * * *

  MARCUS WATCHED THE most infuriating woman on the face of the earth stomp away from him and wished he could call her back. There was no point, of course. Even if she didn’t hate his guts. He chuckled a little at her “stick-up-the-butt” comment. No one could argue with her nerve, at least, even if her common sense was seriously in question.

  He couldn’t believe she actually thought he would agree to take her out to the middle of nowhere and just leave her there, much less support her plan to dive without a safety partner. The woman really was crazy. Which was a pity, since he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her. Last night, his dreams had been haunted by images of a beautiful, long-legged blond enchantress who had somehow soothed and aroused him at the same time. Too bad that in person, she just made him livid.

  He’d thought for a moment, when he fished her out of the sea the other day, that the universe had gifted him with some kind of miracle. Not that he believed in miracles. But still, there she was, dripping with salt water, like Aphrodite risen from the waves. Instead, she was turning out to be more of a curse. He could almost hear the universe laughing at him.

  First, she’d sabotaged their net—he still hadn’t figured out if he bought the idea that she was rescuing a dolphin, or if she really was just one of those crazy activist types as he’d initially thought. Now, she wanted to rent his father’s boat to go out on a suicide mission? So not happening. He’d lost enough men during his years in the war. No one else was ever going to die on him; not if he could help it.

  His father . . . well, that wasn’t under his control, as much as he wished it was. The old man would either beat the cancer or he wouldn’t. All Marcus could do was stick around, here in the last place on the planet he wanted to be, and try to keep the stubborn mule from working himself to death while he fought the disease. It would also be good if Marcus could keep himself from giving in to the impulse to strangle his father before the cancer could kill him. That, and maintaining a fishing boat that had suffered from long years of neglect, was enough to have on his plate.

  There was no way he was going to allow Beka to risk her life—and the life of everyone around her, since that was the way the flaky ones worked. Most of the time, they didn’t kill themselves; instead, it was the innocents around them that died. Like his brother.

  Marcus sucked in his breath as the old grief eddied around him like a riptide, all unexpected waves and downward pull. It was one of the reasons he’d stayed away so long. In the desert, he could go days, sometimes weeks, without thinking of the younger brother who had been his shadow from the day he was born until the day he died, lost over the side of this same ill-fated boat when Kyle was only fifteen.

  Now that shadow haunted him in all the silent moments, only eclipsed for a brief time by the bright light that Beka brought with her, captured like a rainbow in her sunshine-colored hair, temptress smile, and sparkling blue eyes.

  There was no way he would risk that light going dark. Not on his watch. Never again.

  FIVE

  BEKA WAS SO mad, steam rose out of her damp footprints on the dock until she noticed what she was doing and reined herself in. That was the problem with magic if you were a Baba Yaga; it was a part of you, like the beat of your heart or the flow of blood through your veins. If you weren’t careful, it seeped out, spilling over into the mundane world.

  Not that most people would notice. Back in the old days, in the Old World, magic was accepted and people knew it when they saw it. These days, folks were more likely to explain it away with logic, or suspect a lurking camera crew and Hollywood illusions. Still, she needed to be more careful.

  Her sister Baba, Barbara, laughed at her cautious nature and perpetual worrying. Beka thought Barbara was amazing and wished she could be more like her—tough and decisive, not caring what anyone else thought or believed. Maybe when she’d been a Baba for as long as Barbara had been . . . But probably not. At least not as long as her foster mother’s voice drifted like fog through the back of her head, telling her she still wasn’t quite getting it right.

  Like now. She’d made a promise—and not just any promise, but one with a magical commitment behind it, writ like words carved into stone—and now she had no way to keep it. She couldn’t believe she’d failed before she even started.

  At the end of the pier, she stopped outside the harbormaster’s office to pull herself together, tucking shaky hands into the pockets of her patchwork cotton skirt. Through an open window, she caught the tail end of a heated discussion, two voices raised in head-butting dissent. One of them sounded familiar, with a slight Irish brogue under the bulldog growl.

  “I’ve told you,” the voice said. “I’ll pay my mooring fees when I’ve caught something to pay them with. It’s not my fault the damned fish aren’t showing up where they’re supposed to.”

  “It’s not my fault either, Dermott,” the other voice said. It was tenor rather than bass, and less filled with ire than the loud Irish rumble, but there was no trace of weakness there either. “Nobody else is catching fish, but they’re all paying what they owe. You’re behind three months already. I can’t just let you keep docking your boat here for free.” There was the clear sound of a deep inhalation. “Why don’t you ask your son to help you? He just got out of the service, right? He’s probably got some money stashed away—nothing much to spend it on over where he was. Get him to pay your mooring fees.”

  “The hell I will!” This bellow was probably heard halfway down the dock. Beka winced a little, standing just outside.

  “It’s bad enough the boy has put his life on hold, coming back here to take care of me when I never asked him to. I’m sure as hell not going to take his money too. You’ll just have to wait.” There was the sound of boots clomping against a wooden floor, and then the slamming of a door.

  Beka peeked around the side of the building. Marcus’s father stood by the door he’d just crashed shut behind him, leaning against the wall next to it and holding one hand to his chest. His breathing sounded rough and uneven, and his face was white except for the flush of anger riding his sharp cheekbones.

  “Are you okay?” Beka asked, stepping around the corner. Behind her back, she made a gesture that pulled a bottle of water out of her fridge on the bus. That trick didn’t work when she was in the ocean—too much water could inhibit magic unless you prepared for it in advance—but here on land, it barely took any effort at all. She held the bottle out to the older man. “Here, I haven’t even opened this yet. You look like you could use it.”

  The elder Dermott glared at her from his piercing eagle eyes but took the bottle anyway, gulping down half its contents along with a pill from a container in his pocket. After a few minutes, his color looked better and he had enough breath to thank her grudgingly.

  “You’re that idiot girl we brought up in the nets yesterday, aren’t you?” he said, looking at her more closely. “What the hell are you doing down here? If you came thinking you could sue me, don’t bother. There’s nothing to win.”

  Beka suppressed a sigh. She could see where Marcus the younger got his charm and good manners. “Actually,” she said, “I came to offer your son a job. Well, both of you, really, since I wanted to hire the boat. But he turned me down flat.”

  One graying eyebrow rose toward the battered cap perched above it. “Hire the boat? You want to go out fishing?” He looked unconvinced. “Is this one of them Greenie tricks?”

  “Not at all.” Beka was suddenly struck with an idea. She dug the bag of gold coins out of her pocket and held it out. “I want to hire someone to take me out to that stretch of water so I can go diving on a wreck I heard about. I’m willing to pay.”

  The old sailor gave her a dubious glance that turned thoughtful when he looked inside the pouch she’d handed him. “Huh. I never heard of no wreck out there.” He looked into the sack again, poking at the coins with one gnarled, black-rimmed fingertip, before gazing into her eyes. “You know how to dive, do you, girly
?”

  Beka laughed. “How do you think I got what’s in that bag?” She gave him her most earnest smile, although it mostly seemed to go unnoticed. “I won’t get in your way, I promise, and you can still fish while I’m diving.”

  “Huh.” Dermott thought for a moment, bouncing the little bag up and down in one hand. “You’ll sign a waiver afore you come on board? Sayin’ I’m not responsible if anything happens to you?”

  She nodded, trying not to look too eager.

  “And if there happens to be something down there, I get ten percent as a bonus,” the old man added. “Only fair, seeing as how you couldn’t get out there otherwise.”

  Beka bit back a laugh. She kind of liked the greedy bastard. At least he wasn’t pretending to be looking out for her. And it wasn’t as though she was expecting to actually bring up anything valuable. “You bet,” she said. “Have we got a deal?”

  Dermott tossed the bag into his left hand, spat into his right, and held it out for her to shake. “We’ve got a deal. Although I’ve got to tell ya, my son ain’t gonna be too happy about it.”

  A grin hovered around her lips, despite her attempts to hold it back. “Consider that my bonus,” she said. Mr. Crankypants was going to have a cow.

  * * *

  KESH DROPPED THE last canister into place in a deep crevasse and swam easily toward the surface, completely unaffected by the depth or the change in pressure. He was a creature of the ocean, and magical to boot, and this had been his home, not too long ago. Now it was the blighted landscape of his revenge—home to no one at all.

  He laughed as his sleek head crested the waves, changing instantly from his seal form to that of a handsome, dark-haired Human man. As a man, he slid over the side of the boat as gracefully as he had eeled his way through the tangled gray-green seaweed and jagged brown underwater rock formations of his former kingdom. Kesh was a prince of the Selkie people, equally comfortable above and below the ocean, unlike some of his kind.

  He pointed his black speedboat in the direction of land, the first rays of the rising sun glinting off its menacing prow as it sliced through the waves like a weapon, innocuous now that that its deadly cargo had been tucked away to leak its perilous Human poisons into the lifeblood of the sea.

  Kesh’s striking face reflected brooding thoughts, twisting his attractive features into something more revealing of his own inner landscape, as jagged as the rocks below. The much-gloried eldest son of the King of the Selkies, Kesh had always enjoyed a life of privilege and self-indulgence.

  The Selkies, although not immortal, enjoyed long lives. Kesh’s father had been king when they’d made the long ocean journey from the coves and inlets of Ireland to these new and welcoming shores. It was only now that Gwrtheyrn was feeling his advancing years and contemplating passing on his crown to one of his offspring.

  But not to Kesh. Stormy gray eyes narrowed, remembereing another time and seeing in his mind’s eye an ornate and elegant chamber under the sea, instead of the current vista of dawn-lit sky and choppy waves. More garden than throne room, fronds of kelp rose toward the towering ceilings amid sea anemones blooming in hues of crimson, orange, and brilliant iridescent pink. Mother of pearl chairs were scattered around the open space, where courtiers swam or sat or floated in place, their cheerful voices echoing off carved stone walls.

  Kesh had stood proudly with his younger brother, Tyrus, and their six sisters, each lovelier than the last. Their black hair and smoky eyes clearly showed their bond to one another and to the King, graying now, and less agile than in his earlier years, but still as powerful as an old bull seal. He sat at ease atop a throne encrusted with the glittering jewels and gold from a hundred sunken ships; symbolic not just of his position, but also of the Selkies’ mastery under the sea.

  Kesh’s sensuous mouth curved upward in a small, mostly hidden smile as his father had—finally, finally, finally—made official his announcement of an heir, set to take over the throne in a year’s time. But his amusement had turned to confusion, and then blood-boiling fury, as he heard the name that slid like a tiny, biting fish from between his father’s lips. Tyrus. Not Kesh. Tyrus.

  There must be some mistake. “Father,” he’d said quite reasonably. “I am the eldest son. Surely you mean for me to inherit the kingship. I have been waiting so long. So patiently. I might have killed you years ago as you slept or hunted or dived to the unexplored depths. But I waited instead for this day. Where is my reward for my patience?”

  King Gwrtheyrn had gazed at him, a stony expression on his hawk-nosed face, a hint of something that might have been sadness in his deep-set eyes. “I said what I meant to say, as I always do. Your brother shall ascend to the throne, where I know I can depend on him to do his best for our people.

  “This title bears with it more than glory, Kesh. It holds in its essence an obligation to the weighty needs of all our people. And nothing about your behavior over the last many, many years has led me to believe that you would put the interests of others before your own.”

  His father sighed, a gust of sorrow and disappointment that swirled in the water like the ink from a wounded squid. “I am sorry. I know how much you wished for this. But it is not to be.”

  In a less watery realm, Kesh’s ire might have ignited the air. Here, he simply spoke through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the excited muttering of the crowds around him. “But father, I have trained all my life for this role. You yourself taught me all the arts of kingship, that I might someday assume your mantle. I do not understand.”

  Another sigh, gustier than the last. Gwrtheyrn sat up straight, dropping his acid words into the calm, clear waters that surrounded them. “My son, you know I love you, as I love all my children. But your playboy behavior and callous disregard for your subjects have been the topic of many a discussion between the two of us. Yes, I have endeavored to teach you the ways of leadership, but you only learned the parts you enjoyed—the ways of war, the outward pomp and ceremony.

  “Never the true skills needed by a king; wisdom in decision making, planning for the future, care for others, mastery of self. These, too, are part of a ruler’s skills, and you chose not to bother with them. You made this choice for yourself long before I came to this painful decision. I have waited many years, hoping you would prove me wrong, that you would mature into a wiser, kinder Selkie. But I grow old in this unforgiving chair, waiting for changes that will clearly never happen.” The King stood and the entire court fell silent. Not a breath stirred the crystalline waters.

  “It is done,” Gwrtheyrn had said. “Your brother shall inherit the throne. You will bow your head to him, your new sovereign, as you have bowed your head to me. Or you can leave this kingdom and find yourself another home. These are the only choices you have left yourself.” Heavily, his father had sunk back onto the throne, as if all the weight of the deep, deep sea had suddenly rested itself on his broad shoulders.

  Kesh remembered glaring at his father, imagining a light of triumph in his brother’s eyes, since there would have been triumph in his own, had things been different. His sisters all gazed at the floor, tears like precious pearls dripping down pale, downcast faces. Betrayal sat like ashes in his mouth. A shark’s sharp teeth gnawed bitterness into his gut and soul, lodging there in perpetual motion, chewing an unceasing path of anger and sorrow and despair to his very core.

  Without a word, he’d turned his back on the people who’d turned their backs on him, vowing never to return. If he could not be a king under the sea, he would make a place for himself on the land. There was power aplenty to be had there, for one who was handsome and charming and as cunning as the treacherous sea.

  And if he could not have the kingdom for which he had long waited, no one would.

  * * *

  BEKA SPAT THE regulator out of her mouth as she reached the surface, treading water beside the faded white dinghy while she handed her collection bags up into a pair of waiting hands.

  As expected, Marcus had bee
n less than happy about his father’s decision to allow Beka to catch a ride out to where she wanted to explore. In the end, he’d only agreed to allow her aboard if she brought a buddy to keep watch as she dived. She figured that was a small enough concession to make, all things considered, and asked Queen Boudicca for the loan of one of her Mermen who was the most familiar with Humans and their ways.

  Beka knew Fergus slightly from the beach, where he assumed the guise of a man in order to indulge his un-Merman-like love of surfing. They got along well enough, and he’d been happy to help out, since her mission involved his people. Now, clad in shorts and a tee shirt that said SURFERS DO IT IN WAVES, he peered over the gunwale of the boat with furrowed brows.

  “Sun says it’s past two,” he said. “Your Human friends said they would be back about now. Best you wrap it up for the day, eh?” His shaggy red-brown hair blew into his face, and he pushed it back with one slender hand.

  “They’re no friends of mine,” Beka said, scowling as she allowed him to help her back into the boat. “Or I wouldn’t have had to give them a bag of gold coins to bring me out here.” Not to mention arguing for what seemed like an hour with the world’s most stubborn man first. Although it had been fun to watch his hazel eyes spark and flash.

  Fergus shrugged. Money meant little to the undersea folk; they mostly traded for what they needed. Gold coins were just one more shiny object in the world below. “Never you worry about that,” he said. “I’m sure the Queen will replace them for you, since you were doing her bidding.”

  “I am not doing anyone’s bidding,” Beka reminded him, shrugging out of her oxygen tank, pulling off her wet suit, and piling them neatly out of the way. “I am doing my job as a Baba Yaga, that is all.”

  “And how are these bags full of kelp and dead fish going to help you do it, Baba?” he asked, opening one of the airtight sacks and peering inside. “Are you sure you need all these fish? I could use a snack.”