A - Immortal Sea

and the second glass, she nodded toward the back door. “Would you get that?”

He complied. The cool night air flowed through the door, easing his tension. He felt more himself outside, in the open, in

the dark.

Not completely open, he noted. The screened back porch was latticed for privacy, with rolling blinds to keep out the rain

and a double skylight to let in the moon. Bright cushions covered two chairs and a hammock, bleached by the silver light. The

breeze carried the scent of pine and stirred the wind chimes dangling in one corner.

Elizabeth set the bottle on the floor and sat sideways in the hammock like a mermaid caught in a net. The sag in the

webbing forced her to lay back, legs parted, toes barely touching the floor. Deprived of support, she looked softer, looser, off

balance. His predatory instincts sharpened, edged by an odd tenderness.

He sipped his wine, watching her over the rim. “Your parents disapproved of your husband?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“But he is dead.”

“Emily is his daughter.”

He did not understand. “She has your eyes.”

“She has her father‟s name. His skin color.” She took a gulp of wine. “To my father, Zack looks like a freak and Emily

looks like the gardener‟s daughter.”

Comprehension gave way swiftly to rage. “Your father is an ass.”

“Yes, he is.” There was no bitterness in her voice, only a weary acceptance. “But he is their grandfather.”

“Your husband must have family.”

“In Puerto Rico. I take the children to San Juan to visit once a year, but it‟s not enough.” She stared into her wineglass.

“Zack seemed to be doing all right for a while, but the last year or two he‟s been so angry. Withdrawn. He can‟t focus. His

grades have dropped. His sleep patterns have changed. I have to nag him to shower.” She looked up, and the distress in her

eyes made him want to kill something for her. “I‟m worried he‟s doing drugs.”

“Not drugs,” Morgan said.

“What else could it be?”

The Change, he thought. The timing was right. Like puberty itself, the Change would affect every aspect of the boy‟s

development and feel completely beyond his control. On Sanctuary, adolescents were guided through the Change by an

experienced warden. Ignorant and alone, Zachary would be helpless to understand or mitigate the compulsion that seized his

body.

Poor little bastard. No wonder he hid in his room and avoided the touch of water.

“His therapist didn‟t think it was drugs either.” Elizabeth struggled to sit up, cradling her glass in her hands. “But therapy

wasn‟t helping. I thought the move up here—new friends, new environment, a fresh start—might do him some good. Emily,

too. She‟s more resilient than Zack, more open, more eager to please. But she hasn‟t been truly happy in, oh, way too long.

They both need something so much.” She pressed the fingers of one hand to her temples. “And whatever it is, I can‟t give it to

them.”

She was wrong, Morgan thought. Even without understanding her son‟s true nature, Elizabeth had given him the tools to

survive.

She was strong enough not to need his comfort. Not to need him. But it annoyed him she gave herself so little credit.

“You underestimate yourself,” he said. “And your children. You have been giving to them since they were born. They can

be who they are, they can be angry or scared or miserable in your presence, because they know you will be there for them.

Will always be there for them.”

As no one else had been, he realized. Certainly not him.

“Even when they leave you, they will take your example with them,” he said. “Your strength. Your compassion. Your

determination to do what is right. They could not ask for a better teacher, Elizabeth. Or a better mother.”

“Oh.” Sudden moisture swam in her eyes. “Thank you.”

Something sharp lodged in his chest. He had not intended to make her cry. “Do not thank me.”

She blotted her eyes with her fingertips. “Sorry. I‟m not usually this emotional.”

“Neither am I.” The admission made him uneasy. He set down his wineglass, ill-prepared to deal with her tears or his own

reaction to them. “Elizabeth . . .”

She shook her head. “I didn‟t mean to dump my problems on you.”

“Do not apologize.” He sat beside her in the hammock and felt her weight roll warm against his thigh. His blood surged at

the contact. “You should talk to me. I am Zachary‟s father,” he said, and the words this time had new meaning.

“That doesn‟t solve anything. In fact, it makes things more complicated.”

“More than you know.”

Her chin lifted. “I‟m used to dealing with things by myself.”

Good. Her strength would make it easier when he had to leave her.

But not yet, he thought.

“Not tonight,” he said.

The prospect pleased him more than he would have thought possible a week, a day, an hour ago.

Taking her wineglass from her, he set it beside the hammock. He brushed his mouth across her temple. Her cheek. The

corner of her eye. The salt of her tears was nectar to him. Her body was soft and warm and trembling, undeniably human,

irresistibly female.

She pulled back, eyes wide in the darkness. “I‟m not having sex with you because you feel sorry for me.”

He froze, affronted. Disappointed. She did not want his comfort, it seemed.

He could, of course, seduce her into compliance. Even without magic, he had the skill to overcome her scruples. Yet he

was oddly reluctant to lay siege when her walls were already down. He had seen her angry and composed, passionate and

determined. Now she was vulnerable and alone. She deserved better than to have her power of choice stripped from her.

“Your choice,” he said coolly. “Your loss.”

And mine. The realization set his teeth on edge.

For the humiliating truth was he wanted her still, beyond breath, beyond lust, beyond reason.

She struggled to sit upright in the rocking hammock. “I didn‟t say we weren‟t having sex.” With her eyes on his, she

reached for the buttons of her blouse. “Only that it wouldn‟t be out of pity.”

11

IF HE LIVED ANOTHER THOUSAND YEARS, MORGAN would never understand humans. Until Elizabeth, until this

moment, he had not cared enough to try.

Her fingers trembled on the buttons, and his heart stopped. He covered her hand with his. “Let me.”

Let me touch you. Let me help you. Let me please you.

Her breasts rose with her breath. Her hand fell away.

Lovely, practical Elizabeth, prepared to do everything herself. In this one area, at least, he could lavish her with care. Not

from pity—she was right about that—but as a kind of tribute to her beauty and her strength. She deserved no less.

The thought slid into his mind that she might in fact deserve much more, but the surge in his blood swept thought away. He

was drowning in her, her eyes, her throat, her breasts.

He undid one button. Two. A third, his knuckles grazing the smooth skin above her waistband. She sucked in her stomach,

her hands closing over his. To stop him? Or aid him?

“Let me,” he said again.

She lay half under him, unresisting, as he pulled her blouse free.

Her breasts gleamed in the shadows, full and pleasing, cupped by underwear that bound her narrow ribcage. He lowered his