“Why? You were expecting me.” Dylan tossed an arm-load of clothes onto the wide, white bed.
Morgan put down his knife and reached for a towel. “I would prefer not to cut myself.”
“I don’t care if you slit your throat,” Dylan said.
Morgan met his gaze in the mirror. “I take it you spoke with your brother.”
“Yeah. He calls me into his office to find out what’s going on, and I have to tell him I don’t have a damn clue.”
“I do not answer to him. Or to you.”
A flush stained the younger warden’s cheekbones. “This is still my territory. My charge. We’ve had enough demon activity around here that anything out of the ordinary makes my brother twitchy. You need to keep me informed.”
Morgan crossed to the bed and pulled a couple of shirts from the pile. Fortunately, he and Dylan were almost the same size, though Morgan’s frame was heavier. “The prince ordered me to stay.”
“To recuperate.”
“Yes.” He held up a white shirt with buttons. “Linen?”
“Cotton. Natural fibers anyway, like you said. Read the damn label.”
He did not need a label to know it would chafe. He tossed it back on the bed.
“So what’s this bullshit story about a long lost son?” Dylan asked.
Morgan found a thin sweater in soft black, cashmere or silk. “Not bullshit. The boy is mine.”
“You have a kid.” Disbelief scored Dylan’s voice.
“You question my ability to father a child?”
“No, but . . . You, with a human woman?”
Morgan raised his eyebrows. “It is not only selkies who can fuck with humankind.”
He half expected Dylan to take offense. His mother had taken a human husband; Dylan, a human wife.
But the selkie only pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Still, that’s some coincidence you finding him now. Here. On World’s End.”
“I sired him sixteen years ago in Copenhagen.”
“Which makes him a teenager, right? Past the age of Change.”
“So was your sister when she first came into her powers.”
“You think he’s finfolk.”
“I suspect.” Morgan tugged the black shirt over his head. “Tonight I will know.”
“Then what?”
“You do not need me to explain to you the importance of offspring.” Not when the sea lord himself had come to celebrate the birth of Dylan’s half-blood daughter. “Our people are dying. The finfolk are going beneath the wave in even greater numbers than the selkie. Children are survival and power.”
“Children are children. What if the boy isn’t finfolk?”
Morgan shrugged. “Then I have no use for him, and he has no need of me.”
A memory of Elizabeth’s taut, white face flared in his mind. “Ben was there when it mattered. Zack is still adjusting to his loss. He doesn’t need another disruption or another disappointment in his life. He doesn’t need you.”
Morgan’s teeth clenched.
“And if he is?” Dylan prodded. “What will you do then?”
Morgan regarded him blankly.
Do?
Their kind flowed as the sea flowed. If fate had given him a child, he would take it, as he accepted the bounty of the oceans or the gifts of the tide.
“I will take him,” Morgan said.
“To Sanctuary.”
A trickle of unease rolled between Morgan’s shoulder blades. “Why not?”
“In the first place, Lucy won’t stand for you taking the kid anywhere without his consent.”
“I do not answer to your sister.”
“Conn, then. He listens to her. And the kid is only fifteen.”
“You were younger.”
“I was miserable,” Dylan said frankly. “And I did my damnedest to make everyone around me miserable, too. Kids have feelings, you know. The situation on Sanctuary is difficult enough. Do you really think you can run the work crew if you’re baby-sitting some misfit teen with a bad attitude?”
The prospect appalled him. “I do not intend to baby-sit anyone.”
“Then before you take this kid from the only family he’s ever known, you better figure out what you are going to do with him,” Dylan said.
Morgan regarded Dylan with dislike. All he wanted was a chance to secure his posterity and engage in a mutually pleasurable seduction. He did not need this half-blood selkie muddying the emotional waters with his talk of feelings.
“The boy will survive,” he said shortly.
They all would survive. Conn would see to that. Would agree to it.
Survival was all that mattered.
The hearty scent of chicken asopao—garlic and onions, pepper and chorizo—rolled from the kitchen and followed Zack’s mom up the stairs and into his room. “Puerto Rican comfort food,” his dad Ben used to say whenever Mom made one of his family’s recipes.
Zack sniffed. Mom was really pulling out all the stops tonight. Because she thought he needed comfort? Or because that guy was coming to dinner? Morgan. His biological father.
She sat on the end of Zack’s bed, watching him with a sad, patient expression that made him feel about two years old and two inches high.
“You know you can tell me anything,” she said like she believed it.
Zack wanted to believe it, too.
But he knew better. He couldn’t tell her what was really wrong with him. And so he couldn’t say anything at all.
They’d already gone a couple of rounds, his mom hitting him with a combination of concern and sneaky open-ended questions she’d picked up from the counselor she’d dragged him to see back home. “Tell me what happened.” “How are you feeling?” “What do you want to happen next?”
Zack stared down at his hands. He didn’t want to discuss his feelings, for Christ’s sake. Or what happened next. He wanted to be left alone. The pressure—to speak or keep silent—built in his head and chest like a scream.
In sheer desperation, in self-defense, he went for his mom’s weak spot. “So how well did you know this guy Morgan before you slept with him?”
His mother’s face turned white and then red. “Not as well as I should have,” she said calmly. “We’ve talked before about choices. I made some bad ones. But I’ve never regretted having you.”
Guilt pressed his ribs like a five-hundred-pound gorilla. “Until today.”
“Today was not a good day,” Liz agreed. “But you’re still my son, Zack. I love you.”
“I’m his son, too,” he said, hoping for . . . what? Reassurance, confirmation, denial?
Her eyes met his, straight on. “Yes.”
His sneer slipped. He wrenched it back into place. “So what am I supposed to call him? Dad?”
She couldn’t quite hide her wince. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”
A knock, sharp and imperative, sounded from the front door.
Zack swallowed the lump of nerves in his throat. Like this guy never heard of a doorbell.
His mother stood, wiping her palms on her slacks. “That’s probably him now. Why don’t you answer the door while I add peas to the asopao?”
Liz looked around the dining room table, trying to snatch satisfaction from the jaws of impending doom.
Dinner so far was not a disaster. The chicken was good, not as good as Ben’s mother’s, but with the same desirable soupy texture. Emily was spooning up rice with the concentration of a starving child. Zack hunched over his plate, sullen and silent.
On Liz’s right, Morgan was dressed all in black, fitted black pants, slim black sweater. Like a jewel thief or an assassin. Like . . . Zack, she realized. An older, Esquire version of Zack. He leaned back in his chair, a glint in his eye she didn’t trust.
Not a problem. All she had to do was stick to neutral subjects, satisfy whatever curiosity Zack harbored about his biological father, and then shove him out the door.
“I hear it’s supposed to be warmer tomorrow,” she said.
The glint sharpened.
She cleared her throat. “Of course, if it’s overcast, that will make a difference.”
“No doubt.”
Okay, so Morgan didn’t share most Mainers’ ability to talk for hours on end about fog and rain.
Emily raised her gaze from her plate and fixed it on Morgan. “I want a kitten.”
Morgan frowned as if she’d announced she could grow two heads. “I beg your pardon.”
Liz fought a grin.
“There was a sign. At the police station,” Emily explained. “Free kittens. I want one.”
As if she expected him to go out and get it for her.
Liz’s smile faded. “The kittens aren’t really free, Emily.”
“The sign said they were.”
“Yes, but there are costs involved in owning a pet. Shots and food and—”
“You could take the money out of my allowance.”
Liz was no longer remotely amused. “Honey, we talked about this. This is a bad time for us to take on another responsibility.”
And a worse time to discuss it, she thought.
“But—”
“Later, Em,” she said firmly and turned to Morgan. “Thank you for bringing the wine.”
A very nice Tuscan red, a Barolo. She used to like a glass of wine with dinner. It was another thing she’d given up when Ben died. She didn’t want to drink alone, to finish the bottle after the children went to bed.
He shrugged. “Dylan said it would be appropriate.”
She ran through her mental file of patients. “Dylan Hunter?”
“You know him.”
This was an island. Eventually, she would know everyone. It was one of the reasons she’d moved her family here.
“He brought in his daughter for her three-month checkup last week,” she said.
“Ah.” Morgan turned his attention to his plate.
He ate with controlled appreciation, she noticed, an almost animal grace and focus. She watched the movement of his mouth, the flex of his hands on knife and fork, and felt herself flush.
She stabbed at the chicken thigh on her plate. “How did you two meet?”
“Dylan is a colleague.”
“I thought he helped his wife in the restaurant.”
“On occasion. He is also involved in . . . I suppose you would call it environmental protection.”
“And that’s what you do?”
“Yes. Marine protection, exploration, and salvage.” Morgan’s eyes gleamed. “Amazing the things one finds underwater.”
Zack’s fork clattered.
Liz felt control of the conversation slipping and grabbed for the serving dish. “More chicken?”
“Thank you.” He took another leg, some rice, the last length of sausage.
Even Ben, before his health failed, hadn’t attacked his food like this.
Liz watched Morgan heap food on his plate, aware she hadn’t cooked for an adult man in a long time.
Morgan looked up and smiled, his teeth very white. “You have stirred my appetite.”
Her breath snagged in her throat. She was light-headed. Dizzy. Dismayed.
This man was not Ben. And the hunger he stirred in her wasn’t anything she should feel. Certainly nothing she could satisfy.
“This was one of Ben’s favorite dishes. My husband, Ben.” She grabbed her wine to steady herself.
“Then I am honored you prepared it for me. I expected you to serve seafood. Lobster.”
Liz choked.
While she reached for water and a napkin, Morgan turned to Zack. “What did you do with them?”
Zack jerked his shoulder. “He took them. The cop.”
“Frustrating,” Morgan observed.
“Whatever.”
“Unless you can get more.”
Liz stopped her frantic blotting of the tablecloth. Zack regarded Morgan through his lashes and said nothing.
“Where did you find the lobster?” Morgan asked.
Liz held her breath.
“In the water,” Zack muttered.
“Four meters down? Forty?”
“What difference does it make?”
“None to me,” Morgan said blandly. “Though I am interested to know how you brought them to the surface.”
He was questioning her son at her dining room table. That was wrong. But she wanted answers. She was tired of battering herself against the wall of her son’s silence. There was a certain guilty relief in letting Morgan bear the burden of interrogation and the weight of Zack’s resentment.
At least he hadn’t stomped off to his room. Yet.
“What does it matter?” Zack shot back. “It’s over.”
Morgan’s shoulders lifted in elegant imitation of Zack’s shrug. “Until you do it again. Once you give in to it, that kind of thrill is hard to resist.”
“What thrill?” Liz asked. “Stealing? Zack doesn’t need to—”
“The sea,” Morgan said. “It’s in his blood now.”
Zack’s pale face flushed. “It’s not. I’m not . . . I did it for the money.”
Nerves roiled Liz’s stomach. She crumpled her napkin in her lap. “Zack?”
He wouldn’t look at her.
“If you needed money, all you had to do was—”
“I’m too old to run to you every time I want something,” he flashed.
Liz lifted her chin. “I was going to say, ‘Get a job.’ ”
Morgan laughed shortly.
Zack’s face sagged before he shaped it into his usual scowl. “I can’t. I have to watch Em.”
“I think today proved you and Emily would both be better off with some other arrangement,” Liz said as calmly as she could. “Tomorrow I’ll look into options for her. You can walk into town and see if any of the stores are hiring.”
Zack’s chair scraped as he thrust to his feet. “That’s bullshit.”
“Sit down,” Morgan ordered.
“She can’t tell me what to do.”
“Of course she can.” Scorn edged Morgan’s voice. “She feeds you, clothes you, shelters you like a child. Sit.”
Zack flopped onto his chair.
Liz frowned. Not that she didn’t appreciate the support, but she was responsible for discipline in this house. “I don’t need you to stand up for me.”
Morgan gave her a long, cool look. “You are female. This is between men.”
“I’m his mother,” she said, indignant.
He held her gaze. “Precisely.”
She felt naked, all her weaknesses, all her failings as a parent, exposed.
An image sprang into her mind of Morgan, standing in the police station like a black-clad guardian angel, Emily clinging to his leg.
At the table, Zack watched them with the focused attention he usually reserved for his video games. On any other evening, after any other fight, he would be in his room with the door shut and music shaking the walls.
Liz drew a deep, careful breath.
“Can I speak with you?” she said to Morgan. “In the kitchen.”
His teeth flashed. “I am at your service.”
7
MORGAN FOLLOWED ELIZABETH FROM THE DINING room, a buzz in his blood. Amusement or annoyance or lust. She walked with long, smooth strides, hips rolling, shoulders braced for battle.
If she was looking for a fight, he could give her one. He ran his tongue over his teeth. He was prepared to give her any number of things.
She turned to face him, the yellow light from above the sink gleaming on her sleek mahogany hair. The pads of his fingers tingled.
Anticipation, he realized. That accounted for the hum in his blood, the tightening in his belly.
He was immortal, but she made him feel alive.
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “You can’t just stroll into Zack’s life and start acting like his father.”
“I am his father. He is my seed.”
“He’s not some test tube baby,” she
snapped. “He’s a person. He’s my son.”
“My son, too.”
“Which means nothing without some kind of commitment.”
It meant everything if the boy were finfolk.
Morgan raised his eyebrows. “Are you asking my intentions?”
She stuck out her chin. “Towards Zack, yes.”
If he told her, she would throw him out. He shrugged. “I want to know my son.”
“Any relationship you have with Zack has to be his choice.”
He admired her determination to protect her family, even though he had no intention of being hampered by it. “And you trust his judgment.”
She flushed. “No. That doesn’t mean I trust you either.”
“Yet I have been inside you,” he murmured mostly for the pleasure of seeing her eyes flash.
“I was stupid then. I won’t be stupid now. Not with my children’s safety at stake.”
He was annoyed. “I do not prey on children.”
“I’m not talking about physical danger,” she said. “But they’re emotionally vulnerable. Zack is going through a difficult time right now. I don’t want you confusing him even more.”
“It may be I understand the boy better than you think.”
“If I didn’t consider that a possibility, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” she said frankly. “But you don’t really know him. You don’t see him as an individual yet.”
“Of course he is an individual. I only have one son.”
“Listen to yourself. ‘One son.’ ‘The boy.’ He has a name. You could try using it occasionally.”
He stared at her, oddly discomfited. Had he ever called the boy by name? He could not remember. Was not sure why he should care.
She cared. Elizabeth. Her passion lit her from the inside until she glowed with maternal warmth and anger. Vibrant. Desirable. Dangerous.
To distract her, to indulge himself, he moved in, nudging her back against the sink. “Zachary,” he said deliberately. He put his hands on the counter, caging her hips, watching the wild beat of her pulse under her jaw. “Elizabeth.”
Lowering his face to her neck, he breathed her in, the sharp notes of her irritation, the sweetness of her arousal. He eased forward, teasing her with the brush of his body, letting her feel how she affected him.
“Satisfied?” he taunted against her throat.
Immortal Sea Page 8