A - Immortal Sea

Even though his story was nonsense.

She waited for him to surface.

Time slowed.

Waves rolled the boat.

Morgan remained underwater. She watched his shadow slide under the boat and hung anxiously over the other side.

Shouldn‟t he come up for air?

A great gray body erupted from the water, all smooth speed and flashing curves.

She cried out and recoiled. Shark.

Horror gripped her. Morgan was in the water. He would be attacked, eaten, killed.

“Morgan? Morgan!” she called desperately, praying for a glimpse of him, searching for signs of life. Or blood.

A plume of spray shot skyward. The creature arced and leaped. She glimpsed the long jaw, the curved fin, and her heart

resumed beating.

Not a shark. Her pulse drummed with fear and excitement. A dolphin.

It reared from the water, almost dancing on its great fluke, its massive body gleaming against the sky. Its round eye was

deep black with a glint of gold.

Recognition squeezed her throat, quivered in the pit of her stomach.

Her mind slammed shut. No.

The dolphin plunged, a shining pewter arc disappearing in a burst of speed and foam. She stared, transfixed, as it

shimmered, darkened, spread. The sea rippled and flashed.

She blinked.

A shadow, as wide as the boat was long, glided like a kite through the depths below. Her brain fumbled. A ray. Magic,

alien, other, moving with primitive purpose and grace, breaking the planes of space like a bird.

It circled the boat, once, twice, drifting close. One wing tip slid above the surface, furled in a lazy salute. She inhaled in

shock and fear and amazement.

Sunlight struck the water, striped its back in patterns of light and shadow, black and white. She stretched out her hand.

“In the sea, we take the form of creatures of the sea . ”

Her breath shuddered out. Impossible. Her fingers curled into a fist.

She watched the shadow grow bigger than the dolphin, bigger than the boat, pushing through the water. Blood rushed in

Liz‟s head. The shadow shot past, developing length, strength, bulk. The boat rocked. A black dorsal fin rose like the sail of a

pirate ship cutting through the water, rose and fell, rose and . . .

Orca.

White gleamed against black, a patch of cheek, a flash of tail. She should have been terrified. She was terrified, her mouth

dry, her pulse racing. And yet . . .

Joy, power, freedom surged just beyond her reach, too huge to understand or encompass. What her mind refused, her heart

welcomed in awe and wonder.

“Morgan,” she whispered. Not a question, not a warning this time.

The whale broke the bounds of the water, its motion like flying, like dance. White and black, dark and bright, magic as the

night sky over Copenhagen sixteen summers ago.

“ I want an adventure, ” she‟d said to him then.

She had never dreamed of anything like this. Moisture beaded her eyelashes. She tasted brine on her lips, like tears or

spray. Saltwater, the source of life.

The whale fell back into the sea in a flourish of foam.

“Oh.” She cried out in loss. In longing.

As if he heard her call, the sleek black shape surged and circled. She watched him speed toward the boat, deep and fast.

She trembled, clutching the sides as the whale slid beneath the bow.

The water boiled. Burst.

And Morgan emerged from the sea on the other side.

She met his eyes, golden eyes, animal eyes, with wide black centers and no expression. Her heart threatened to beat its way

out of her chest, everything she‟d believed, everything she thought she understood, suddenly upended.

His large hands gripped the sheer line. Between his fingers, something shimmered, sheer and shining as insect wings. She

blinked as it faded away. His powerful shoulders flexed. In a rush of water, a blur of movement, he surged into the boat.

Her mouth opened and closed silently. Like a fish , she thought, and shivered. Bad analogy.

Morgan folded himself on the bench opposite hers, his big, square knees jutting into her space. Rivulets of water ran down

his smooth skin. “You are all right.”

A question? An observation? Or a command?

“Fine. How . . .” She stared, riveted at his feet, ankles, arches, toes. His toes . Between his joints, a faint webbing stretched,

iridescent as scales. Oh, God. She forced her gaze to his face. Cleared her throat. “How are you?”

“I am well. Usually, I do not change forms so quickly. The danger of losing concentration is too great. But today I felt

anchored. You anchored me.”

She swallowed. “Is that good?”

“Yes.”

“Then I‟m glad.”

He studied her face. “You are a remarkable woman.”

“And you are . . .” Impossible. Unthinkable. Unreal.

“Remarkable, too.”

She itched to touch him, ached for the reassurance of his solid flesh. His human flesh. She clasped her hands together

tightly in her lap. “I thought you‟d have a tail,” she blurted.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You said finfolk. Merfolk. And in Copenhagen, at the statue, you said . . .” She could no longer remember exactly what

he‟d said at the statue of the Little Mermaid all those years ago. “Anyway, I thought . . .” She gestured toward his legs,

encased in wet black denim. Avoided looking at his feet.

“Ah. No. One chooses to be one or the other, a man on land or a creature of the sea,” he explained patiently. “To be both at

the same time denotes a lack of control. I chose the forms most likely to be acceptable to you.”

“Flipper,” she said, only a trace of bitterness in her tone.

His eyes narrowed. “The muc marra and whaleyn were land mammals once. The closest to human of the creatures of the

sea.”

She turned his words over in her mind like a child with a shape puzzle, struggling to make things fit. “What?”

“Eons ago, they gave up the land for the ocean. I thought it might help you to know that. To see their choice as right and

natural.”

Her focus sharpened. Her maternal instincts woke. She straightened on the narrow seat. “Zack isn‟t a dolphin. He‟s a

fifteen-year-old boy.”

“Already past his first Change.”

“You can‟t know that.”

Everything in her rejected what he was saying. They were talking about her baby, her firstborn.

But the pieces fit.

“I saw it. I saw him last night. Elizabeth.” Compassion deepened his voice. “Where do you think he got the lobsters?”

Oh, God.

Her face felt stiff. “I thought he was having trouble adjusting to the change.”

“He was.”

She was too upset to appreciate his irony.

In the distance, an early lobster boat headed home, the chug of its motor traveling over the water. Liz‟s mind spun, picking

and discarding memories, testing pieces of the puzzle.

“The grief counselor said he was okay. „As well as can be expected.‟ ” She bit her lip, the small pain a distraction from the

ache at her heart. “But about six months after Ben died, Zack changed. His hair color, his hygiene, his clothes.”

Those damn boots, she thought. He never went barefoot anymore. Even in the house, even in the summer, he wore socks.

Morgan nodded. “The Change comes on at adolescence. He would try to control it. Failing that, to hide.”