certainly liven up the discussion in
the checkout line.
Regina swallowed. Okay, no test. Not yet. Not until she could get to
the mainland, Rockland or someplace, to buy one. In the meanwhile, she
would count the days and pray and stay as far away as possible from
Dylan “No Family Ties” Hunter.
57
Five
LIVING IN HUMAN FORM AMONG HUMANS was like being
dragged naked over rocks.
Dylan stood motionless on the wharf outside the lobster cooperative,
itching for the coverage of his pelt, craving the rush and freedom of the
sea.
His hands flexed and fisted. He had dallied in human form before,
sometimes for sex, most often alone on the island his mother had
bequeathed to him. But never for so long. Never surrounded by other
beings who claimed a share of his space, a portion of his attention. He felt
assaulted, abraded, by the constant human contact.
No wonder the old king, Llyr, had gone “beneath the wave,” the
polite selkie term for those who had withdrawn so deeply into themselves
and the sea that they lost the desire and ability to assume human shape.
The smell of diesel and oil, the tang of coffee, sweat, and cigarettes,
rose from the saturated planks, overlaying the rich brine of the ocean.
Fishermen came into the low wooden building to sell their catch, to buy
bait and fuel and rubber bands, to share complaints or gossip. Dylan felt
their glances light like flies against his skin, but no one questioned his
presence. He was accepted— not one of them, but still of the island.
He listened to their conversations, trying to fathom from their talk of
weather, traps, and prices what the demons could possibly want from
World’s End.
“He’s got no right to set traps on that ledge,” one man told another.
“So I cut his line and retied it with a big knot up by the buoy.”
His companion nodded. “That’ll teach him.”
“It better.” The rumble of an incoming boat underscored the threat.
“Or next time I’ll cut his line for good.”
Dylan smiled to himself. Apparently humans could be as territorial
as selkies.
58
The engine behind him throttled down. Another fisherman, Dylan
thought. He turned. And froze, his casual greeting stuck in his throat.
The boat was the Pretty Saro. He recognized her lines even before he
registered the name painted on her side. And the fisherman was Bart
Hunter.
His father.
He was old. Dylan had seen his father before, of course, at the
wedding. But out of a suit, out in the sunlight, the realization struck with
fresh force.
Bart Hunter had always been a big man. Dylan had his height; Caleb,
his shoulders and large, square, workingman’s hands. But the years or the
drinking had whittled the flesh from his bones, weathered his face,
bleached his hair, until he stood like an old spar, stark and gray. Human.
Old.
How had Dylan ever been afraid of him?
They stared at each other across the narrowing strip of water.
They had barely spoken at the wedding. Dylan had nothing to say to
the man who had held his mother captive for fourteen years.
But before he could clear out, Bart tossed him a rope.
Dylan caught it automatically. Old habits died hard. He was eight or
nine when he started sterning for his father, hard, wet, dirty work in
oversized boots and rubber gloves.
Dylan tied the line, cursing the memories that dragged at him as hard
as any rope.
And then he turned and walked away without a word. “Don’t judge
me, boy,” Bart called after him. The words thumped like stones between
his shoulder blades. “You can’t judge me.”
Dylan did not look back.
59
He climbed the road away from the wharf, the need to escape
swelling inside him, coiling in his gut, clawing under his skin.
He sucked in the cool ocean air in a vain attempt to placate the beast
in his belly. He burned with need, for a woman, for the sea, the two
hungers twining and combining, eating him up inside. He fought the urge
to
the checkout line.
Regina swallowed. Okay, no test. Not yet. Not until she could get to
the mainland, Rockland or someplace, to buy one. In the meanwhile, she
would count the days and pray and stay as far away as possible from
Dylan “No Family Ties” Hunter.
57
Five
LIVING IN HUMAN FORM AMONG HUMANS was like being
dragged naked over rocks.
Dylan stood motionless on the wharf outside the lobster cooperative,
itching for the coverage of his pelt, craving the rush and freedom of the
sea.
His hands flexed and fisted. He had dallied in human form before,
sometimes for sex, most often alone on the island his mother had
bequeathed to him. But never for so long. Never surrounded by other
beings who claimed a share of his space, a portion of his attention. He felt
assaulted, abraded, by the constant human contact.
No wonder the old king, Llyr, had gone “beneath the wave,” the
polite selkie term for those who had withdrawn so deeply into themselves
and the sea that they lost the desire and ability to assume human shape.
The smell of diesel and oil, the tang of coffee, sweat, and cigarettes,
rose from the saturated planks, overlaying the rich brine of the ocean.
Fishermen came into the low wooden building to sell their catch, to buy
bait and fuel and rubber bands, to share complaints or gossip. Dylan felt
their glances light like flies against his skin, but no one questioned his
presence. He was accepted— not one of them, but still of the island.
He listened to their conversations, trying to fathom from their talk of
weather, traps, and prices what the demons could possibly want from
World’s End.
“He’s got no right to set traps on that ledge,” one man told another.
“So I cut his line and retied it with a big knot up by the buoy.”
His companion nodded. “That’ll teach him.”
“It better.” The rumble of an incoming boat underscored the threat.
“Or next time I’ll cut his line for good.”
Dylan smiled to himself. Apparently humans could be as territorial
as selkies.
58
The engine behind him throttled down. Another fisherman, Dylan
thought. He turned. And froze, his casual greeting stuck in his throat.
The boat was the Pretty Saro. He recognized her lines even before he
registered the name painted on her side. And the fisherman was Bart
Hunter.
His father.
He was old. Dylan had seen his father before, of course, at the
wedding. But out of a suit, out in the sunlight, the realization struck with
fresh force.
Bart Hunter had always been a big man. Dylan had his height; Caleb,
his shoulders and large, square, workingman’s hands. But the years or the
drinking had whittled the flesh from his bones, weathered his face,
bleached his hair, until he stood like an old spar, stark and gray. Human.
Old.
How had Dylan ever been afraid of him?
They stared at each other across the narrowing strip of water.
They had barely spoken at the wedding. Dylan had nothing to say to
the man who had held his mother captive for fourteen years.
But before he could clear out, Bart tossed him a rope.
Dylan caught it automatically. Old habits died hard. He was eight or
nine when he started sterning for his father, hard, wet, dirty work in
oversized boots and rubber gloves.
Dylan tied the line, cursing the memories that dragged at him as hard
as any rope.
And then he turned and walked away without a word. “Don’t judge
me, boy,” Bart called after him. The words thumped like stones between
his shoulder blades. “You can’t judge me.”
Dylan did not look back.
59
He climbed the road away from the wharf, the need to escape
swelling inside him, coiling in his gut, clawing under his skin.
He sucked in the cool ocean air in a vain attempt to placate the beast
in his belly. He burned with need, for a woman, for the sea, the two
hungers twining and combining, eating him up inside. He fought the urge
to
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