Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

grandmother?”
     
    Nick hunched a shoulder.
     
    “Does she know you’re here?”
     
    The boy’s gaze dropped. “Chief Hunter said he wanted to talk to me,” Nick mumbled.
     
    Dylan had a sudden image of himself at fourteen, fearful and alone, waiting at Caer Subai for his mother to come home from the sea. Only she never had. Conn had taken Dylan under his wing. Nick needed someone like that, someone he could trust to provide him with assurances and answers.
     
    Someone like . . . Caleb.
     
    “I’ll get him for you,” Dylan said and ducked under the crime scene tape.
     
    The bell jangled overhead as Dylan pushed open the door of the restaurant. A man wearing the navy wind-breaker of the state police was on his knees by one of the booths.
     
    He looked up in annoyance. “What do you want?”
     
    “Caleb.”
     
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    “Do you have information pertaining to the case?”
     
    “No.”
     
    “Then get the fuck out of the crime scene.”
     
    Dylan strode past him.
     
    “Hey!” The man’s shout followed him into the kitchen.
     
    He found Caleb standing at the stainless steel counter watching another man slide a shiny object into an envelope.
     
    Every muscle in Dylan’s body went rigid. “Where did you get that?”
     
    “Do you recognize it?” Caleb asked.
     
    Dylan stared at the small gold cross glittering from a nest of fine chain. His mouth went dry. His head buzzed. “It’s Regina’s. She must have been wearing it when he grabbed her. That’s why his hand is burned. Where did you find it?”
     
    “Mop bucket,” Caleb answered shortly. “I missed it on the initial walk-through.”
     
    The other man’s quick brown gaze shifted from Dylanto Caleb.
    “Who is this guy and why are you confiding details of the case to him?”
     
    Caleb stiffened. “My brother, Dylan, Detective Sam Reynolds of the Maine CID.”
     
    Dylan didn’t care who he was. The noise in his head drowned out everything else. He held out his hand for the chain. “Give it to me.”
     
    “Why?”
     
    “Is he crazy?” Reynolds asked.
     
    “She wore it all the time,” Dylan said to Caleb. The totem of her murdered Christ, bright across the smooth skin of her breast, a ward as personal and more powerful than the triskelion inked into her skin. It should have protected her. Perhaps it even had. But now that protection
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    had been stripped from her, and she was out there somewhere, defenseless.
     
    Not quite defenseless, he thought, recalling her strong will, her sharp tongue. But still only human and alone.
     
    He hoped she was alone. Because if she were in demon hands . . .
     
    “It’s a connection,” he explained, aware of the urgency surging in his veins, pushing into his voice. “I can use it to find her. Give it to me.”
     
    “I can’t,” Caleb said regretfully. “It’s evidence. We’ll send the necklace to the crime lab for testing, and then—”
     
    “The necklace won’t tell you a damn thing you don’t already know,”
    Dylan said.
     
    Caleb raised his eyebrows. “And it will you?”
     
    Dylan held his gaze. Held out his hand. “Yes.”
     
    “No,” Reynolds said. “We’re not using some crazy psychic, even if he is your brother. Get him the hell out of here.”
     
    Dylan ignored him, his gaze locked on his brother’s, his heart pounding in his ears.
     
    “Right,” Caleb said.
     
    He dropped the necklace into his brother’s hand.
     
    *
     
    Regina huddled in her silent chamber in the rock. The dark wasn’t worse than the cold. The darkness couldn’t kill her. The cold might.
     
    Time passed. Minutes? Hours? She hadn’t dried one bit. Water still saturated her hair, T-shirt, and jeans. The chill penetrated her clothes. Her blood. Her bones.
     
    The oppressive quiet, the unrelenting void, sapped her energy.
    Weighed on her spirits. Messed with her mind.
     
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    She dozed. Sometimes she dreamed— of her son’s face, her mother’s voice, the baby inside her— and woke to find herself with tears sliding down her cheeks, alone again. Always alone.
     
    “I’m sorry, Ma. I didn’t mean for you to raise another kid on your own.”
     
    “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter.”
     
    But it did. It mattered a lot.
     
    She raised her head from her knees, roused by the sound of dripping water. At least she wasn’t shaking so hard. She wanted to think that was a good sign. Her body, however, knew differently. Her breath wheezed.
    Her joints