Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch

wrong place at the wrong time,” he said. “Let the doctor do her thing, and if you’re good, maybe she’ll give you a Wonder Woman Band-Aid.”
     
    Maggie narrowed her eyes. “Wonder Woman.”
     
    He smiled. “You want to hold out for SpongeBob, fine. But that’s my final offer.”
     
    Donna sniffed. “If you two are done playing doctor, I’ll finish here, and she’ll be free to go.”
     
    “Right. Thanks,” Caleb said.
     
    Maggie pulled her paper gown tightly closed. "Go where?”
     

     
    He woke on the floor of an empty room in front of a dead fire.
     
    The smell of ashes drifted from the grate and coated his tongue. Pain pulsed in his temples and flashed in his head. His body felt pounded, pummeled, as if he’d been in a fight, as if his internal organs, lungs and liver and spleen, had been worked over, rearranged, pushed aside to accommodate something alien.
     
    Like the mother of all hangovers.
     
    He had been sitting staring into the flames, sipping a fifteen-year-old single malt Laphroaig. The smoky sweet aftertaste lingered, roiling his stomach and burning the back of his throat. He could see his empty shot glass on the carpet a few yards away.
     
    He must have drunk more than he thought.
     
    He pushed with his arms and levered himself to his knees. Spots danced, black and bright, before his eyes. His stomach lurched. He swayed on all fours, head hanging, taking deep breaths in and out. In.
    And out.
     
    When he had control again, he crawled to the glass. Mustn’t leave it on the floor. Mustn’t let anyone see. He reached for it, his hand shaking.
     
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    Stared, puzzled, at the dark smear on his cuff. Too dark for whiskey, too deep for soot . . .
     
    Blood?
     
    Shock cleared his brain.
     
    Had he hurt himself when he fell? Was that why his memory was fuzzy, his head throbbed?
     
    He staggered to his feet, heart tripping in panic.
     
    The harsh light of the bathroom made him reel. Gripping the cool porcelain sink for support, he inspected himself in the mirror. He looked .
    . . fine. All right, not fine. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face the color of the ashes in the grate. But he wasn’t injured. The blood—if it was blood—wasn’t his.
     
    He held his shaking hand under the faucet. Water soaked his cuff and ran red into the sink. The stain spread, pink against white.
     
    Oh, God.
     
    What had happened? Why couldn’t he remember?
     
    His throat was dry. He swallowed two Excedrin with a glass of water. Two glasses of water. Despite the churning in his stomach, he was almost unbearably thirsty. Dehydrated. He splashed his face with trembling hands. Water dripped on his shirt as he stared at his reflection.
    His eyes . . .
     
    Something lurked at the edges of his vision or in the corners of his eyes. Like flames licking a hole through paper. Like a face flickering at the window of an empty house.
     
    The hair rose on his arms.
     
    He cursed. He was fine .
     
    He snapped off the light, plunging the bathroom into darkness.
     
    Stripping off his clothes, he stumbled to bed.
     
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    Margred leaned her head against the back of her seat and closed her eyes. Caleb had left her in the Jeep outside the Inn with the instruction to wait for him. She might as well obey. She didn’t think she could move if she tried.
     
    It wasn’t that she didn’t care what happened to her anymore. She cared desperately. But like a sea bird tangled in fishing line, she did not see any way to affect the outcome. Her struggles merely exhausted her.
    Sapped by fatigue and shock, she was reaching the limits of her puny human strength, increasingly, blessedly numb.
     
    Or almost numb. When Caleb opened the door on the driver’s side, she felt a warming little flicker of . . . relief? Recognition?
     
    He frowned. “Are you all right?”
     
    He meant to be kind, she reminded herself. “Just tired.”
     
    Tired of his questions. Tired of being urged to remember what she pretended to forget. Preferred to forget.
     
    The smell, the demon smell, neither human nor mer nor angel nor sidhe.
     
    The hunger.
     
    The pain.
     
    She wanted to forget. But the blurring of memory she accepted as a mercy, Caleb regarded as an obstacle. He wanted the truth.
     
    Only she knew he could not handle it.
     
    He cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that . . . We’ve run into a little problem.”
     
    Her poor, weary heart jumped into her throat.
     
    A little problem?
     
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