Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord

right.
    That was how she got along. That was how she survived. By fitting in. By blending in. By making damn sure that when people looked at her—her fellow teachers, her neighbors, everybody—they saw quiet, well-behaved Lucy Hunter, who took care of her father and was good with children.
    Not the weird kid.
    Not the drunk’s kid.
    Not the superfreak.
    Her gaze dropped to the pelt at her feet. Although if Conn was right about all the rest, “freak” barely covered it.
    “What about Dylan? And Maggie? They’re not human, you said. Shouldn’t they be able to, um . . .”
    “They have no reason to suspect that you are gone. And the claidheag will learn very quickly to be what they want.”
    “It’s not the same.”
    “But it is. You also pretend.” His eyes were sharp as polished steel. His observation cut her heart. “Or will you deny that when your family looks at you, they see only what they want to see?”
    “My family loves me,” Lucy said, her voice trembling with rage. She hoped it was rage.
    “They do not know you.”
    “Neither do you. You don’t know anything about me.”
    “You are the daughter of Atargatis.”
    “My mother’s name was Alice. Alice Hunter.”
    “Your mother was the sea witch, Atargatis.”
    She set her jaw mulishly. “Prove it.”

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    His brilliant eyes softened with what might have been sympathy. “I do not need to prove anything. The evidence is all around you. Within you.”
    Fur brushed her calves, tempting her to bury her toes in its warmth. She pulled her feet under her chair.
    “You mean, your pelt.”
    “I mean your power. Open your eyes. Look at the condition of the cabin. Your gift struck at me to protect you.”
    “Too late,” she muttered. “If I really had some kind of magic force field, it should have kicked in when you jumped me in the garden.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “It was hardly a rape, my dear. You are no defenseless virgin.”
    Her cheeks, her face, her whole body burned. She took responsibility for her own actions. But there was no reason to be insulting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Merely that you are stronger than either of us imagined,” he said coolly. “As you proved again when you flung the contents of the cabin at my head.”
    “That wasn’t me.”
    “What, then?”
    “I don’t know. Wind. A whaddayacallit. Poltergeist.”
    “You believe in ghosts?”
    “You believe in selkies.”
    He laughed. “Indeed.”
    The laughter made him seem more approachable, almost . . . She bit her lip. Almost human.
    Conn regarded her thoughtfully. The lantern warmed the marble perfection of his face, softening the hard line of his mouth. “There was a teacher once on my island, on Sanctuary, who told stories to the children to make them understand. Do you do that?”
    “Sometimes,” she admitted cautiously.
    “Then let me tell you a story,” he said. “To help you understand.”
    He wanted something, Lucy thought. Or he wouldn’t be so gentle. “You can talk to me.” “They treat you like a child.” “Trust me.”
    She shivered.
    And yet she had sent for him because she wanted answers. What did she have to lose by listening to him now? Maybe a part of her even wanted to believe . . . What?
    “ You are stronger than either of us imagined. ”
    And maybe she was an idiot.
    The darkness was filled with rising and falling sound, with the rush of wind and water. Ropes creaked.
    The cabin rocked. The jagged light of the broken lantern danced on the ceiling and spilled like gold coins to the floor.
    Apparently her silence was all the assent Conn needed, because he began. “In the time before time, the Spirit of the Creator swept over the waters,” he said in his deep, mesmerizing voice. “From the void, He made the domains of earth, sea, and sky. He called the light into being. As each element formed, its people took shape: the children of earth and sea and the children of air and fire. You have this story.”
    “Um. Some of it.” Bart Hunter was not a churchgoing man. But like every other kid on the island, Lucy had attended Mrs. Pruitt’s Vacation Bible School. She could still summon hazy memories of Noah’s Ark, Popsicle sticks, and glue. She was pretty sure, however, that Mrs. Pruitt’s lessons on Creation didn’t go exactly like this. “Except God makes Adam out of dust.”
    “Man was formed later, after the earth