Selkie Island Read online

  Chapter One

  She heard the boat first, its vibrations traveling down through the water. This arrival was a rare occurrence, and she felt driven to investigate the intruder. Leaving the ocean floor—she wasn’t far from the island—she angled her body, undulating upwards at top speed. She hit the surface and caught sight of the boat headed towards her and her island.

  As it came closer she saw that it was surprisingly small. These days only larger boats seemed to venture this far out from the mainland. Most people gave her island wide berth—it had certainly wrecked many boats in its time—but this one was aiming for Selkie Island, and she didn’t know what to make of that.

  Curiosity was her first and strongest emotion so she waited, just below the surface. The occasional seal hunter or angry fisherman existed, so she kept her profile low as the boat passed by, then followed in its wake, swimming along behind it. It struggled in the rough water, making its way through the large waves.

  Her vision through air wasn’t terribly clear, but a single man appeared to be slumped over the steering wheel. How odd. Intruders—visitors, she corrected herself, deciding to be positive—generally did not come alone, and they usually arrived in warmer, gentler weather than that of a gray, wet, windy spring day.

  It was hard to describe the excitement growing in her, though she knew she should feel more cautious given the terror engendered by the last set of strangers who’d landed on her island. But loneliness was a powerful force in her life, and as of now, it swamped her fear.

  He rounded the point, rather clumsily, and she heard the boat scrape a rock, harsh enough to cause damage. She cringed, not wanting the man to sink the boat. Never before had she rescued anyone from drowning, and the logistics would be challenging. Seals didn’t have limbs useful for lifting humans, and her human shape would very quickly become lethally chilled in the spring ocean.

  Thankfully, the boat was not immediately harmed. It kept going, rather grimly she imagined, towards the little beach that she considered hers. A mild sense of territoriality rose within her. Still, human conversation was something she sorely missed, and it had been a couple of years since she’d last spoken to anyone.

  Maybe. Her sense of time was deteriorating. She knew it. And at some point she might lose it forever and forget what was human in her.

  But not today, it seemed. She braced herself, for this wasn’t the time of year she changed. Usually she waited for summer and heat and sun. Her seal body was never cold, only sleek, thick, furred and comfortable. On the other hand, her human body did not like the cold and over the years, that body seemed to become a little thinner, a little weaker and less able to withstand the elements. As if it was fading from disuse.

  Rain began to fall. The gray sky had darkened since the intruder’s arrival. Morag dragged herself onto the rock, and like the rock, she lay half in and half out of the salt water. Her focus turned inward.

  She was never sure of the passage of time when she shifted forms though it felt instantaneous and perhaps it was. Certainly the first transformation, or what she remembered of it, had not taken any amount of time. It couldn’t have, she’d just died and the magic had needed to work quickly.

  She allowed the energy to engulf her—it was always her choice—and the seal was gone, only its shadow-light living within her. In the seal body’s place, she’d become a wet, sodden human, shivering in reaction to the shock of change though she wasn’t yet cold.

  Pulling herself out of the water, she crouched in this new body, already growing familiar, becoming hers. Then she crawled up the short cliff onto the bank. Rising, she remembered her height and enjoyed being on two legs and lifting her arms to the wind. She ran for shelter, a little astonished that it was so easy to embrace the human body after this length of time being seal. She came to the old house from the other side of the island than the intruder, wanting to reach home first before he could catch sight of her. If she was clothed when they met, he’d be less likely to think of having sex with her. At least, that had been her experience over the years.

  The door opened, and she breathed a sigh of relief at gaining shelter from the wind and rain. Human skin was not much of a barrier against the elements.

  Her shack remained hers, she saw with satisfaction. The lighthouse-maintenance workers continued to ignore her home, and her relation left it unlocked after doing his yearly drop of supplies. Her family had not yet forgotten her, even if some years the supplies went untouched when she couldn’t face the human solitude of living on the island by herself.

  However, one day, her sister’s descendants would forget. Not only had she outlived her first family, at some point in the future she would outlive their memory of her and she would, finally, be lost.

  That was her future, but now her curiosity about this lone boat in spring, before the fishing season, had drawn her out, drawn her home. If only the clothes were still in the chest… Yes, she saw as she lifted the cedar lid. Whenever she returned after a period of time away, she feared someone had decided to clean out the house, taking her clothes with them.

  Her older relations used to visit with her during the summer, but the newer ones made her shy. They didn’t believe in her and had no patience to wait for her to summon up courage to appear before them. They jumped on and off the island, anxious to get the drop over and done with. She’d overheard more than once that they only visited to placate their elderly mother and her crazy ideas.

  Morag’s niece was now an old woman.

  Before dressing she wrung out her hair as best she could and tied it in a knot. She wanted to cut it off, but not when she was rushed like this. Growing nostalgic, she pulled on pants, sweater and jacket, all of which had been given to her by the one who’d loved her. Clay had been the most patient of everyone, waiting days for her to appear before him. Once he’d landed on Selkie Island, he’d acted like he’d had all the time in the world.

  She hugged his clothing to her, a frail echo of the embraces she had given him and he her not all that long ago. When she was seal, she didn’t miss him as keenly. But she was human again and it felt as if he’d left yesterday.

  He was the only one she’d ever laughed with since her immediate family died.

  Enough. Humans, she had to admit wryly, were too nostalgic. The pragmatism of the seal fell away when she shifted from that body. Here, now, she had to focus on the intruder and ignore her memories. She set off from the house.

  Morag didn’t take the direct path to the beach where the boat had landed. Instead she circled around to it, silent on her bare feet, stopping before she might come into his view.

  But as she peered past the point he wasn’t there, though the boat had been pulled up from the shore. Not far enough for this time of year when the tides could be high, but she’d think about that later. First she needed to locate the boat’s owner while keeping her advantage—she knew he was here, but he didn’t know she existed, and for now it should stay that way.

  She walked carefully by the boat, listening for movement and hearing none, though it was windy. Cautiously she started up the small bank, and froze at the sight.

  The man was there, lying on the ground of all things. She’d expected him to be moving, at least standing. It was an odd place to rest, if that’s what he was doing. He still hadn’t seen her. His back remained to her.

  Was it a trap? She waited, silent, then stepped closer to get a better look.

  Recognition slammed into her, stealing her breath. She took another step, shaking now, wondering if she was mistaken, wondering if she was no longer able to distinguish among the different humans. Was her memory shot and she thought every man was her lover, Clay?

  He was sleeping and that made her uneasy. He shouldn’t be sleeping in the rain,
curled into himself. She breathed in and smelled the slight metallic tang of blood. Her heart, which had stopped beating during her shock, started up again.

  “Hello,” she whispered and got no response. That made her scared for him. Something was terribly wrong. “Clay?”

  He didn’t stir and her uneasiness grew. She drew closer.

  He was older, which surprised her. Because she’d barely aged, he shouldn’t have either. But he did not live by her rules, and it was him. He smelled of Clay, that distinctive musk, perhaps a bit stronger with age. She’d liked his smell though he’d been embarrassed by the statement when she’d made it that summer, so she’d only said it the once.

  “Clay,” she repeated. He had a scar on his chin now and more wrinkles where before the skin had been smooth in his youth. His forehead was creased in pain. And still he didn’t stir.

  She placed a hand on his arm, and for a moment he didn’t react to that either. Then he pulled air into his lungs, a sound of alarm rising with that inhale, and his eyes flew open. He rose, grabbed her wrist hard and yanked her to the ground as he rolled to lie on top of her. A stone dug into her back, his weight made it difficult to think, and bloodshot, unseeing eyes stared down into hers.

  “Clay?” she said for a third time. Her voice sounded weak, unused. “It’s me, Morag.”

  His gaze seemed to sharpen despite the dullness in his eyes. Shock gave way to recognition and disbelief. His mouth opened slightly and she thought he might speak. Instead his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped on top of her.

  Well. At least his bruising grip relaxed. She rolled them back over, not sure if she wanted him to wake up again or not, though that hadn’t been an attack so much as a shocked awakening. The pressure of being lain on might have panicked her, but it was Clay who’d loved her at one time. All of her emotions were overlain by confusion, yet she felt a strange, aching relief.

  Because she’d never thought to see him again. He was from far away, he’d only been a visitor, and still he’d come back to her.

  Mind you, she’d rather he were conscious and happy to see her. Remembering his hot hand encircling her wrist, she touched his cheek. He was burning up. She’d thought it had been windburn giving his dark face a ruddy complexion, but it was a high temperature. She sat back on her haunches, bracing herself to try to wake him again, hoping he wouldn’t try to initiate another wrestling match. Despite her efforts, he couldn’t be roused by her shaking or her pleading. Which probably wasn’t a good sign.

  It took her a few minutes to slide her body under his and rise, balancing him on her back. It wasn’t so much his height, though he was taller, it was his muscular, solid frame and her human weakness. Still they didn’t have far to go and she half-carried, half-dragged him up the path towards the lighthouse and home.

  She laid him down on the ground in order to go open the door and set something up for him inside. There were old blankets in the chest and she used that as a bed, placing them on the wooden floor before returning to drag him in and lay him on them. He was muttering now but not really aware, and again, she touched his face, alarmed by the force of the heat. Her hand was cold so she pressed her cheek against his forehead, and her heart started to beat fast with fear.

  Sarah had caught a fever one summer, almost died of it, and Morag’s mother believed that only by keeping her cool had she saved her younger daughter’s life. Morag bit her lip. “I’ll be right back, Clay.” On impulse she kissed his cheek. Then she picked up a pail and ran for the ocean, her easy source of cold water.

  She had her work cut out for her. As little as she knew about humans, she recognized that. But she would apply herself to saving Clay. Later she’d try to figure out what his reappearance on Selkie Island actually signified. For him. For her.

  It meant a lot to her, his return. Because no one but her mother and sister had ever come back for her.

  Chapter Two

  He was on fire. Maybe he’d died and gone to hell, except he didn’t believe in hell. It just fucking hurt. He was going to come out of his skin.

  The cold shivered over him again, a reprieve from the heat but the pain of it made him shake harder. With the cold came visions of Morag, though what she was doing with him, he couldn’t fathom. Had he died? Was she in hell too? The idea caused him pain.

  “Hush.”

  The coolness swept down his body and his teeth began to chatter. Hot and cold together, his body couldn’t compute, as if it no longer knew how to cope. He should be worried about that reaction and his inability to understand what was going on, but he could barely think behind the heat and the pain and this specter of Morag come to haunt him nine years later.

  He went under but came awake when something hot and jagged punched into his thigh where the bullet was. He screamed before he passed out. Time faded into blackness.

  At some point, his head was raised and liquid poured down his throat. What the fuck was going on here? He forced himself to open his eyes and look, though it was hard to concentrate, hard to see, and what he saw didn’t make sense.

  Morag again and always. He hadn’t known her well or for long, but he kept dreaming of her. She made his heart ache. She was above him like a ministering angel. He knew she was an illusion because this Morag was the same age she would have been when they’d first met—in her mid-twenties—and her hair was hacked off in that same awful style of hers.

  She was nodding, a determined glint in her eyes though she looked tired, weary, worried. In real life she’d always been carefree, a little fey even. Certainly no nurse. “You’re going to be all right, Clay.”

  “Dead?” he managed to ask Morag’s doppelganger through dry lips.

  “Not while I’m here.” She smiled and it was exactly like that old smile of hers. His mind might be shot, but his memory wasn’t and he was creating a bizarre sequence of images culled from his past.

  He tried to respond to her, but things went murky. The different sensations blended together: heat, cold, water being poured down his throat, pain in his thigh, Morag’s face… In the background there was sometimes a song being sung in a foreign language, soothing him. Sometimes his hand was held. It was a strange kind of hell and he didn’t know what to make of it.

  Then he slept, oblivious. Hot and cold, hot and cold. It went on forever.

  Eventually the hellish heat left him and with it the fog of confusion and incomprehension. He woke shivering in the dark. Like the tide, the heat had receded, leaving awareness in its wake. He blinked, staring straight up as he lay on his back. It was hard to see in the pitch black.

  He felt like shit, like something had beat up every single cell in his body. He didn’t know where he was.

  Don’t move, you’re not alone.

  Instinct warned him someone else was here in this godforsaken place. Had Aaron found him, despite all his precautions? Clay heard breathing, soft and even, as if the person near him was sleeping. But Aaron wouldn’t be sleeping beside him, at least not while Clay was alive.

  Something in him relaxed. People who wanted to attack you didn’t sleep beside you. Still, Clay didn’t move. He searched his mind to figure out how he’d gotten here—wherever here was—and became panicked by his inability to come up with answers.

  Just wait. It’ll come. He forced himself to take deep breaths and stay calm. Last thing he remembered was…driving that damn boat over the ocean towards Selkie Island and almost sinking in the process, what with the large waves and his fever incapacitating him. But he’d gotten to shore, hadn’t he? The waves had threatened to swamp his boat, but he’d prevailed, or the boat had.

  Where the hell was he now? He tested his body, flexing his hands, wiggling his toes, then winced because of the pain in his thigh. The bullet, he remembered with a jolt. That wasn’t good. He’d tried to extract it the first day and had gotten scared he was going to hit the artery and inadvertently kill himself. So he’d ignored it. A problem to solve later. It hadn’t killed him yet.

 
Presumably. Earlier in the fever he’d thought himself dead but now… Now he felt alive, if exhausted and uncomfortable.

  He shifted and a grunt of pain escaped him. He froze as beside him a shadow rose to remind him of how vulnerable he was.

  A match was lit and he caught a glimpse of red hair and freckles before a candle’s wick caught and burned, offering a small amount of light in this dark of night.

  The shadow, candle in hand, leaned over him and he stared, mesmerized, unable to move.

  “Clay?” She lightly touched his forehead, as if the gesture was familiar to her and to him. Then she smiled, relief in that expression and a sheen to her eyes. “Your fever, it’s broken.”

  How could Morag be here? In his astonishment, he could barely speak, yet that wasn’t the question he asked. Instead, he demanded, “Am I dead?”

  She settled back on her haunches, gazing at him. “I wish you’d quit saying that.”

  He’d said it before? “But…how did you find me?”

  She cocked her head, puzzled by his words. “This is my home. I told you that.”

  He swallowed with some difficulty. His throat felt dry. It was a dream of sorts, evidently, though he found he wanted to respond. “You told me many things, Morag, and most of them were lies.”

  She wiped her eyes and for a moment he thought she was crying because of his accusation of lying, but when she spoke, she spoke of other matters. “I was very worried about that fever. It just wouldn’t quit.” She set the candle down and reached for his water bottle. Yes, it was his, the one he’d brought from Toronto. How the hell were Morag and his Toronto water bottle in the same dream?

  “Drink,” she commanded. “You’ve sweated so much, you need to drink.”

  “I feel parched,” he admitted. Why couldn’t he be healthy in his dream? Very annoying. He winced as he rolled to his side, his thigh shooting pain down his leg. This felt too real and disquiet rose in him. “Morag?”

  “Yes?” She was wiping her eyes again, the tears completely silent. Why did his dream Morag have to weep? It pained him.