A - Immortal Sea

shark confined to a tank.

At the dawn of creation, the children of the sea had lived in balance with their fellow elementals, the children of earth, air,

and fire. In recent centuries, however, the seas had sickened and the merfolk had declined. As their numbers and their power

dwindled, every birth, every loss, assumed deeper significance. When three of their youngest had disappeared last year, even

Morgan had winced at the loss.

Perhaps Conn was right. Maybe a closer alliance with humankind would ensure their survival.

His lips tightened as the infant at the front of the church was signed with water and the cross.

And perhaps it would destroy them.

He turned and stalked from the church.

At least outside he could breathe. The shadowed porch was cool and dim. He staggered like a sailor who had been too long

at sea. The smell of grass and decay rose from the church yard, carried on a fresh breeze from the sea. To steady himself, he

focused on the things of earth, leaning headstones, blowing grass, a tree.

A pair of children, an older boy and a little girl, turned off the main street, ambling along the crumbling asphalt at the side

of the road. Something about the boy, the shape of his head or the set of his shoulders, snagged Morgan‟s attention. He

narrowed his gaze.

Really, the boy seemed almost familiar, tall and wiry, a mop of hair above a lean, watchful face. Morgan had not known

many children. Only the whelps on Sanctuary. Perhaps boys, like puppies, were all the same. This one had yet to fill out, to

grow into his hands or his wrists, his feet or his nose. But he looked like . . .

Morgan‟s pulse quickened.

Almost exactly like . . .

“ Iestyn? ” Morgan whispered.

But as soon as the name escaped his lips, he damned himself for a fool. This was no missing selkie youth. This boy was

bony where Iestyn was lean, black-haired while Iestyn was fair.

And human, the most insurmountable difference of all.

Morgan settled back into the shadows of the porch, ignoring the drumming of his pulse, the tug of instinct or recognition.

Obviously, the sea crossing had addled his brain.

Two more boys in faded flannel and jeans turned the corner. They called up the hill, loud as crows. Morgan was too far

away to distinguish the words, but the first boy stiffened.

“Faggot.” This time Morgan heard the taunt clearly.

The black-haired boy bent and whispered to the girl, giving her a little push. She cast a quick look over her shoulder and

ran, her pink sandals slapping the gravel.

Straightening, the boy turned to face his tormentors.

No coward, then, Morgan thought with approval.

The girl pelted past the church, her small face pink with exertion and excitement. Morgan barely noticed her as he assessed

the boy‟s chances. Two against one. Not good.

This would be over quickly.

Red Plaid Shirt muscled in like a bull seal on a beach, all weight and noise. The black-haired boy defended himself with

knees and elbows. The lad had height, Morgan thought disparagingly, but no real training. His stance was all wrong, his hands

open like a child‟s.

The ensuing scuffle was too vicious to be called horse-play, too lacking in technique to be termed a fight. The two

principals exchanged pushes, jabs, and jibes, while the third boy circled like a runt in a dogfight.

Red Shirt threw a shoulder into the dark boy‟s ribs. He staggered back a step, raised both hands, and shoved. Hard.

His attacker flew five feet through the air and crashed on the grassy strip beside the dreaming churchyard.

Well.

The black-haired boy stood breathing hard, spots of color burning in his pale face.

Morgan raised his eyebrows. He had not guessed the skinny lad had such strength in him.

Neither had his assailant, apparently. Red Shirt sprawled on his ass in the weeds, expression stunned, belligerence

temporarily knocked out of him. His companion hurried to extend a hand.

Red Shirt waved him off.

The smaller boy frowned. “Todd? Aren‟t you gonna . . .”

Todd climbed painfully to his feet.

The black-haired boy braced.

“Nah. He‟s not worth it,” Todd declared and spat on the ground. “Pussy.”

They slouched off in the direction they came from. The boy stood and watched them go before resuming his climb, his

shoulders hunched, his boots scuffing the road.

Morgan frowned as the lad drew even with the porch. He did not walk like a victor.

“Not bad.” Morgan spoke from the shadows. “But when you fight, you should fight to finish.”

The boy‟s shoulders jerked in a defensive shrug. “Whatever. It‟s over.”

“Over, but not done.” Morgan strolled to the top of the steps, once more in command of his body, the sea song in his head

fading to a manageable roar. “The one you fought will try again.”

“What do you care?” The boy raised his chin, his gaze blazing. His eyes were the color of tarnished gold.

Recognition hit Morgan like a rock.

Finfolk eyes. Iestyn‟s eyes. Morgan‟s eyes, in a mortal‟s face.

His breath hissed between his teeth. “Who are you?”

3

THE STRANGER‟S GAZE PINNED ZACK TO THE sidewalk. “Who are you?”

Zack swallowed, taking in the hard jaw, the hard eyes, the long, black leather jacket. The guy was tall, taller even than

Zack, and his arms were as big around as Emily‟s head. No way was Zack going to be able to outrun him. “Who wants to

know?”

The man didn‟t seem to register his rudeness, which set off all kinds of alarm bells in Zack‟s head. “My name is Morgan.”

No last name.

When grown-ups did that, they were usually trying to be friendly. This dude didn‟t look friendly. He looked seriously

badass.

“Zack. Zachary,” he mumbled, the extra syllables dragged out of him by the man‟s hard stare.

His hair was really blond, Zack saw. Almost white, like his own hair before he dyed it. The thought gave him a funny

feeling in his stomach.

“You live here,” the man said.

“Um . . .” Zack‟s mom was always going on about giving out personal information to strangers. For once, her warnings

made sense. “Yeah.”

“Where?”

The uh-oh feeling spread. “None of your business.”

The man‟s mouth compressed. “What is your family?”

Not, Who are your parents? Not, What do they do?

“I have to go,” Zack said.

“Wait.”

Zack started walking. A dark blue, late model Honda CRV rumbled over the top of the hill. His mom‟s CRV with his mom

driving and—Zack squinted to see through the glass—his sister in the backseat.

Relief, embarrassment, and annoyance churned inside him as the vehicle braked by the curb.

The window rolled down.

“Zack?” His mom‟s smile held a hint of apology, as if she knew she was babying him but couldn‟t help herself. She‟d worn

that smile a lot lately, which made Zack feel guilty and irritated him at the same time. “Em said you might need a ride home.”

The back of Zack‟s neck crawled. Without turning, he knew the guy was behind him.

“Who is this?” the man asked.

His mother‟s gaze slid past him. Her smile faded completely. Her face turned white. “Get in the car.”

Zack‟s gaze bounced between the man and his mom. “What‟s going on?”