A: Immortal Sea

so great on these uneven streets.

She stumbled on the curb, grabbing for his arm. The leather was smooth beneath her fingers, his muscles hard as iron.

At her touch, he froze.

Morgan looked down, arrested, at the woman clinging to his arm. Was she aware what she invited? His kind did not touch.

Only to fight or to mate.

His blood rushed like water under ice. Perhaps tonight he would do both.

He had not come ashore to rut. He was not as abstemious as his prince, Conn, but he had standards. Unlike his sister

Morwenna and others among the mer, he did not often waste his seed on humankind.

The woman‟s throat moved as she swallowed. “Sorry,” she said and dropped his arm.

She was very young, he observed. Attractive, with healthy skin and glossy brown hair. Her face was a strong oval, her jaw

slightly squared, her unfettered breasts high and pleasing. There was even a gleam that might be intelligence in those brown

eyes.

It would be no great privation to indulge her and himself.

“Do not apologize.” Grasping her hand, he replaced it on his sleeve. Her nails were clean and unpolished, her fingers

tapered.

He imagined those short nails pressing into his flesh, and the rush in his blood became a roar. No privation at all.

He glanced around the narrow buildings fronting the street. He would not take her here, in this filthy human warren. But

there were other places less noxious and nearby. Adjusting his stride to hers, he led her away, seeking green ways and open

water.

The lights and noise of the city at night eddied and ebbed around them, the amber pool of a street light, the green glow of a

bar sign, a lamp in a second-floor window.

At the next intersection, she hesitated, her gaze darting down the street toward a café where trees strung with tiny lights

canopied a cluster of empty tables. “Don‟t we want to go that way?”

She did possess intelligence, then. Or at least a sense of direction.

“If you like.” Morgan shrugged. “It is quieter toward the harbor.”

Her brow pleated. Her eyes were big and dark. He watched the silent battle between feminine caution and female desire,

felt the moment of acquiescence when her hand relaxed on his forearm. He fought to keep his flare of triumph from his face.

“Quieter,” she repeated.

“More . . . scenic,” he said, searching for a word that might appeal to her.

“Oh.” Her tongue touched her lower lip in doubt or invitation. “I haven‟t seen the harbor yet. This is my first visit to

Copenhagen.”

“Indeed.” Warmth radiated from her hand up his arm. Anticipation flowed thick and urgent through his veins. She was not

part of his purpose here. But she was a respite, a recompense of a sort, for long years of trial and frustration.

Her bare shoulders gleamed in the moonlight, sweetly curved as the curl of a shell. The night swirled around them like

seaweed caught in the tide, the smell of beer and piss and car exhaust, a waft from a flowerbox, a breeze from the sea.

“I almost didn‟t come,” she continued, as if he had expressed an interest. “Not part of The Plan, you know?”

He did not know and cared even less. But her voice was low pitched and pleasant. To hear it again, he asked, “There is a

plan?”

She nodded, touching the ends of her hair where it brushed her smooth shoulders. He observed the small, betraying gesture

with satisfaction. Consciously or not, she was signaling her awareness of him as a male.

“I start med school in the fall,” she said. “My dad wanted me to stay home and do a post-bacc program, get a leg up on the

competition. My mother wanted one more summer of tennis and Junior League before I slip her grasp forever.”

He had no idea what she was talking about. “And what do you want?”

Her eyes crinkled. “A break,” she said with such rueful honesty that he almost smiled back. “Everything always revolves

around school. Like I don‟t live my own life, I prepare for it. I wanted . . . something different. An adventure, I guess.”

He could give her something different, he thought. He would even make sure she enjoyed it.

The barred storefronts ceded ground to cobblestone streets and narrow houses with cramped garden plots. The scent of

standing water and of lilies carried on the breeze. Not much farther now , he thought.

“What about you?” she asked with friendly interest.

He glanced down in surprise.

“What brings you here?”

His purpose was bitter as brine in his mouth, deep and cold as the sea.

For Morgan was warden of the northern deeps, charged by a lost king to fight a losing battle.

For a thousand years he had served the sea king‟s son, battling demons in the deep, defending his demesne from the sly

encroachments of the sidhe . But his powers had proved useless against the depredations of humankind. For more than a

century, the overflow from this city‟s streets and canals had polluted the sound and the sea, turning the port into a shit house.

Only now, when the humans had finally learned to curb their waste, could Morgan begin the slow process of repair. Recovery

of the seabed would take centuries.

He did not blame this girl—much—for what her kind had done. She was here and female and willing. Under the

circumstances, he was prepared to overlook a great deal.

“Business,” he said.

Her deep brown eyes assessed him. “You don‟t dress like a businessman.”

He wore the black and silver of the finfolk, subtly altered so he could pass for a man of this place and time. “No?”

“No.”

He did not respond. The sky was thick with moisture, glowing with the lights of the city and the promise of dawn. The

moon wore golden vapor like a veil.

“You don‟t want to talk about it,” she guessed.

He smiled, showing the edge of his teeth. “You did not seek my company for my conversation.”

She stopped on the sidewalk, her chin tilted at a challenging angle. Despite her earlier signals, he had been too blunt.

Women, human women, required some preliminaries. Or perhaps her female pride was offended. “Really? What is it you think

I want from you?”

Her cheeks were flushed. Her scent filled his nostrils. Beneath the sharp notes of her annoyance, he could smell the

sweetness of her body readying itself for his. His shaft went hard as stone.

“My protection,” he offered.

She nodded once, her eyes big and wary. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Okay.”

He stepped closer, watching her face carefully. “And perhaps . . . an adventure?”

He heard the betraying intake of her breath. Her small round breasts rose. And suddenly he wanted this, wanted her ,

beyond habit or reason, instinct or expedience. The intensity of his lust surprised him.

She was only human, after all.

Liz inhaled, her breathing no longer under her control, her heart thrumming with nerves and longing. She shouldn‟t . . . She

never . . .

Oh, but she wanted to.

He was right in front of her, adventure personified in moonlight and black leather. Those strange, pale eyes were dark with

promise, his mouth curved in a knowing smile.

She moistened her lips. “I don‟t even know your name.”

He lowered his head, stoking her senses with the heat of his body, the flavor of his breath. “Morgan.”

“Liz.” He was going to kiss her, she realized. And she was going to let him. “Elizabeth Ramsey.”