A - Immortal Sea

“Oh, sweetie.”

But he didn‟t need a child‟s reassurances now, she realized. His tears earlier had steadied him, strengthened him somehow.

“The point is, whether your father was finfolk or not, I should have known better, I should have known him better, before I

slept with him. We can‟t always know the consequences of our choices. But we can try to learn as much as we can so we can

make informed decisions.”

He twisted his mouth in a smile. “You mean, by looking stuff up on the Internet?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “And sometimes we just need to talk.”

He absorbed that for a beat, maybe two. “Is it okay if we talk later? Because the movie starts in like ten minutes.”

She stared at him in disbelief. How could he even think of going to the movies with so much undisclosed, undiscussed, and

undecided?

Because he was fifteen, she realized. Still a child, still a boy, no matter how “unique” he was.

She was glad, relieved to have any evidence he was still a normal teenager.

“That‟s fine.” She dried her hands on a dish towel. “You have a good time. Be home by eleven.”

“Mom. It‟s Friday.”

She draped the towel over the bar on the oven door. “And you have work tomorrow.”

“Not until noon. Noon to six.”

He was growing up some, if he remembered his work schedule.

“Eleven,” she repeated.

“Fine.”

“I love you, Zack.”

He met her gaze. His eyes were Morgan‟s eyes, pale gold with deep black centers, but his smile was pure Zachary, sweet

and careful. “Yeah. Me you too.”

Her heart swelled.

Maybe love would be enough, she thought when he‟d said good-bye and the house was empty.

She filled the kettle and set it on the stove to make a cup of tea. The gas flared, too high, too fast. She frowned and adjusted

the dial.

Maybe love was all you had, and all you could hold were the moments snatched before the ones you loved were gone.

As Ben had gone.

And Morgan.

Blue flames jumped and licked at the kettle‟s sides. The spout burped water as if it were boiling already, which it wasn‟t.

Odd. Fat drops sizzled against the steel. The little hairs lifted on the back of her neck.

She adjusted the heat again carefully. Old stoves could be temperamental. Nothing to worry about. She‟d had this one

inspected with the rest of the house before they moved in.

Tigger mewed, plaintive, insistent.

She opened a cupboard to get a mug and the tea canister. She smelled . . . Not gas. Something fecal, something fetid,

something rotten.

A hiss, a whoosh behind her made her turn.

A sheet of blue and orange flame shot upward from the stove.

“Shit,” she yelled and dropped the mug and lunged for the burner control.

The fire reached greedily for her, a flash of heat, a howl of glee. She ducked, twisting the dial. The gas snapped off. The

fire wavered. Dropped. Died.

Heart hammering, she backed away. The broken mug rolled at her feet.

Tigger cried.

“It‟s okay,” she said shakily.

The burner was black, the kettle quiet. She glanced down and saw the kitten puffed with fright, backed against a table leg.

She blew out her breath. “It‟s okay, baby.”

She stooped to comfort him, and the dish towel hanging on the oven door burst into flame.

16

THE PREMONITION OF DANGER TRICKLED THROUGH Morgan like smoke.

He raised his head from his whiskey like a wolf testing the wind, his hunter‟s instincts alert. But he could detect no threat

in the quiet bar at the inn.

“Can I get you another?” offered the waitress. She shifted her weight, her hip brushing his arm. “Or anything? Anything at

all.”

“No.” He remembered human manners and added, “Thank you.”

She was young, clear eyed, smooth skinned, and eager. But he did not want her. He did not want any woman but Elizabeth.

The realization made him almost as uneasy as that sly tickle on the back of his neck, in the pit of his stomach. For the first

time ever in his existence, he was uncomfortable in his own body. Not because he needed sex or the sea, but because he

wanted her. Elizabeth. He worried about her.

How did humans bear it? This edge of impatience, this itch of anxiety, this awareness of another like the slide of water over

his skin.

She wanted time alone, she‟d said. To think.

The lingering bite of whiskey could not dispel the bitterness in his mouth.

She needed to pick up her daughter, service her car, resume her life.

And Morgan, moved by her pale face and huge dark eyes, aware he had pushed the bounds of her acceptance enough for

one day, had acquiesced like a besotted fool.

A mistake, he thought now. Like any warrior, Elizabeth would use the respite to count her losses and regroup. He should

have stayed with her.

He should be with her. Now.

The thought cleaved his skull, sharp as an axe or instinct.

He stood.

“Can I add that to your tab?” the hovering bar girl asked.

He nodded, thanked her, and left, driven by an urgency he could not explain and did not question.

The parking lot stank of gravel and gasoline, the moist loam of the neglected gardens, the pervasive tang of the sea. And

under it all, an acrid taint like ash.

His nostrils flared. Like demon.

His lips pulled back from his teeth. The premonition of danger flooded back, stronger than before. Elizabeth.

Before he reached the end of the drive, he broke into a run.

Red flames shot to the ceiling. The burning towel fell to the floor. Liz‟s heart hammered against her ribs. She dropped to

her knees, fumbling in the under-the-sink cabinet. Dish detergent, garbage bags, cleaning bucket . . . fire extinguisher.

Thank God. She grabbed it.

She‟d never used one before, had no idea if it had expired. Could expire. She stumbled to her feet, yanked the big round

pin, and aimed the nozzle at the fire.

Nothing.

Sweat broke out on her face and under her arms. Her pulse raced. Do not panic. She was a doctor, trained to respond

calmly in crisis. She squeezed, pressed, prayed. A burst of chemical foam shot out, smothering the stove. Flames and foam

collided in an oily, stinking mess. She coughed. Sprayed. The fire subsided with a sullen hiss and a flicker of orange. She

sprayed until the canister sputtered and died, until the stove and surrounding floor were coated with greasy, caustic foam. Her

hands trembled. Her legs shook.

She shuddered and lowered the extinguisher.

The fire erupted in a geyser of flame.

Holy shit. Smoke boiled, swirling with all the colors of a bruise, yellow, black, purple.

Get out , she thought.

Get help.

Nothing she could save was worth her life. Zack and Em needed her. She couldn‟t afford to die.

Tigger yowled, a long, unearthly cry of feline despair. She couldn‟t leave the kitten behind either.

She threw down the canister and reached under the table, cutting her palm on the broken mug. Tigger backed away.

“Damn it, cat.”

She scooped him up, ignoring the dig of kitten claws and teeth, and dashed for the back door. Smoke coiled and slithered

around the ceilings, flowed down the walls. Her sweaty palms twisted the doorknob. It stuck. With the kitten dangling in the