Immortal Sea (6 page)

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.

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?”

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?”

“Get in the car, Zack. Now.”

Out of instinct, out of habit, Zack obeyed. He hopped around to the passenger side and opened the door.

“I know you,” the stranger said slowly.

“No, you don’t.” His mother’s tone was fierce. Firm. But Zack heard the underlying high note, almost like she was scared. Like that time he hitchhiked to the beach without telling her.

“I have seen you before.”

That voice, that well-remembered voice, stroked Liz like a hand and clutched her heart.

“I have seen you before
.”

Only for a couple of hours in the dark sixteen years ago. He couldn’t possibly recognize her.

The passenger door slammed as Zack got in the car.

She had recognized
him
right away, Liz thought. Morgan. The white-blond hair, the brutally handsome face, the strange yellow eyes were the same. He looked exactly the same. While she . . .

She took a deep breath. Well, she’d changed, hadn’t she? She was no longer a dewy, perky, naïve college student.

She was thirty-seven years old, for God’s sake. A mother. A doctor. She had borne two children and buried her husband, and her face and body carried the lines and scars of laughter and of sleepless nights, of grief and resolve.

Liz gripped the steering wheel with sweaty palms. No, he hadn’t recognized her.

“
Who is this?
” he had asked.

Anger caught her unprepared like a cramp, sharp and unexpected. She was what life had made her. She was the woman she had made herself, and she would protect that life, that woman, any way she could.

“Fasten your seatbelt,” she ordered Zack.

At the click of the buckle, she threw the car in gear and punched the gas. She did not look in the rearview mirror as she drove away.

“Who was that?” Emily asked from the backseat.

No, he wasn’t. Bernardo Rodriguez was the only father her son had ever known or needed.

She couldn’t say that either.

“His name’s Morgan,” Zack said.

Emily leaned forward between the front seats. “Do you know him?”

“Sit back,” Liz instructed, nerves snapping in her voice. She concentrated on turning the corner, struggling to keep the wheels and her tone even. “Not really.”

“He said you did,” Zack said.

Back in North Carolina, she’d been desperate for her son to communicate. She’d tried card games and car trips, nonverbal communication strategies and active listening techniques without success. She’d prayed this move would shake him from his self-imposed silence. But why did he have to start talking now?

“We’ve met,” Liz admitted. “I meet lots of people. Doctors, patients, drug salesmen . . .” She was rambling. She shut up.

“Was he a patient?” Zack asked.

Oh, God.

She and Ben had agreed never to lie to Zack. He knew Ben wasn’t his biological father. Liz’s parents had cut off all emotional and financial support when she told them she was pregnant and wanted to keep her child. Ben had married her while they were both still in med school and adopted Zack a few months later. She would not impinge on her grieving son’s bond with his dead father because of a chance encounter on the street with a virtual stranger.

If this was a chance encounter. Her heart raced as if she’d injected epinephrine. What if Morgan had sought Zack out?

She drew a deep breath. She was overreacting. Morgan never even knew of Zack’s existence.

“It was a long time ago,” she answered vaguely. “What did he say to you?”

Zack slouched in his seat, staring out the window at the dark pines bordering the road. “Nothing.”

“He must have said something,” she persisted.

“He asked where we lived.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Mom.” A staccato burst of impatience.

She waited.

Zack scowled. “No, I didn’t, okay? Christ, I’m not a baby.”

He was, though. He was her baby boy, no matter how tall he grew or what kind of language, dress, or attitude he affected. “I just wanted to be sure he didn’t say anything to . . . to upset you,” Liz said carefully.

“Well, he didn’t.” Zack shot her a quick, penetrating glance from beneath his fringe of black hair. “What’s some guy you used to know doing here anyway?”

“I have no idea,” Liz said coolly. “Maybe he’s on vacation.”

The other possibilities tightened her throat.

Zack slumped, staring out the window. “Yeah, because everybody wants to come to freakin’ Maine.”

She drove past the clinic and turned into their driveway, marked by an aggressively new lamp post and a clump of orange daylilies. The house was a renovated Victorian cottage with traditional New England charm and new, double-paned windows, dumped on the market when the previous owners tired of the Maine winters or the second mortgage. No sea views, but the property was convenient to Liz’s work, and Emily could walk to school.

Liz pulled into the garage with relief. “We’re home,” she announced.

Safe.

As if there had been no interruption to their lives or their morning and everything could return to normal.

She turned to her children with a smile, determined to restore the security they had lost along with their father. “Who wants pancakes?”

Emily bounced. “I do.”

Zack’s face closed. “No, thanks.”

“Don’t you want lunch? Breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

She watched her son shuffle to the house, his head ducked between his shoulders, and her heart sank.

Everything back to normal.