Page 16 of Sea of Evil and Desire (The Deep Saga #1)

14

Morgana

D arkness enveloped me. Its swirling presence was like unseen hands pulling me into a dance. Red eyes stared unblinkingly into the void. There was the familiar whistling noise and my blood in the water again—someone cried out, but the oppressive blackness obscured my vision.

Sweat drenched my body. I was awake and in my grandparents’ attic, not my grimy little cabin deep under the ocean.

I threw my quilt to the floor, heart racing. I didn’t remember falling asleep. It was like I had jet lag from the difference between this world and the murky depths of the sea. It was the same dream I always had, yet it didn’t frighten me as much. This time, the engulfing darkness reminded me of the ocean’s sway, and I felt as if I were back there.

Two days —only two days had passed here, meaning time in the Kingdom of the Deep operated somewhat similarly. I felt like I had completely lost sense of it. The dead weren’t counting anymore because they had nothing to count up to.

Yesterday had gone better than expected. I told my grandfather I’d been with Finn for two days. He grumbled but accepted my story. After a hot bath, I raced down to Bayside to see Skye, and I told her I had been sick. She cried and hugged me, admitting she had started to suspect Finn. I knew I was weaving a fragile web of lies that could easily unravel in a small town, but it was all I had to work with.

Barry’s son, Jamie, had been covering my shifts at Celtic Keepsakes and had begrudgingly offered me my job back. Words of acceptance tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. Did I even want it?

The guilt that flooded me when I said yes told me I didn’t, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to return to the world of the Drowned either. I wasn’t sure I even knew how.

The only thing I knew for certain was that I needed to understand what a “Selkie” was, and what this had to do with me.

“What’s for breakfast?” I slid onto one of the wooden chairs across from my grandfather.

The kitchen exuded a warm, inviting ambiance compared to the ocean’s gloomy emerald depths. The sun’s rays filtered in through the small window above the sink, lighting the room in soft shades.

“Fresh fish on toast,” he said, popping a piece of bread slathered in oily mackerel into his mouth. His hands were marked with scars and calluses, the result of a lifelong dedication to the seas.

His fish breakfasts usually repulsed me, but something about their smell had changed. Now, I desired them.

“Ugh.” I feigned disgust, opting for cornflakes.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” He glanced at the wooden grandfather clock in the corner of the room—9:35 a.m.

“I have the day off.”

I shoveled cereal into my mouth. It tasted foreign, and I was hungrily eyeing Granddad’s toast. I’d told Jamie I wouldn’t be back until the next day because I needed to “recover,” but really I needed time for research.

“I don’t want any more complaints from Barry. I was embarrassed to call Officer Wilson and tell him you were back, and that it was a false alarm.” He chewed his fish slowly, mashing it between his fragile gums. I could sense his anger, but also a genuine concern.

“Yes, Granddad.” I smiled at him, forcing down some more cornflakes. His anger faltered, replaced with a sliver of happiness.

He coughed, as if trying to master a stern tone. “First he carries you in here unconscious, and then you disappear with him for two days.” He shook his head. “I think this lad is bad news, Morgana. There are strange folk in this old port town. You hear stories . . .”

“Are you going fishing today?” I raised my eyebrows at him, guiltily changing the subject.

He nodded and glanced out the window. “Your mother called while you were asleep. She wonders when you are planning on going to college.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“I don’t think I want to go back . . . and who would stay with you?” I muttered, toying with my soggy breakfast.

Granddad huffed. “Your mom won’t like that, and don’t worry about me.”

“I can make my own choices now,” I grumbled.

“And what choices are those? Disappearing with strange lads . . . She calls me every bloody hour.” He rubbed the gray stubble on his jaw.

“Granddad, I am sorry for leaving you.” I avoided his eyes, but when I looked up, his face softened.

“You remind me of her, you know.” His grief washed over me.

“Thank you,” I said gently.

We sat in silence for a while. Granddad was lost in his memories, his sadness decorating the room.

“D-do you know of any bookstores nearby? Maybe one with books on local history.” I met his brown eyes.

When I transformed into an underwater being, my mobile phone, jeans, and T-shirt had been lost, and Granddad didn’t have a computer, so I would have to do my research the old-fashioned way.

“I’m not much o’ a reader.” He waved off the question.

I returned to my cornflakes, the aroma of his fish toast still hanging in the air.

“There’s one a few streets back from here,” he finally said. “Your grandmother used to go there sometimes.”

An idea struck me. My grandfather had lived here all his life . . .

“Um, Granddad, maybe you can help me. Could you tell me about Selkies?”

The toast fell from his hand, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. I sensed a wave of defensiveness and something else: guilt. I watched him apprehensively, convinced he must know something.

“You can’t believe what people in this town say,” he said gruffly, pushing out his chair.

“But what are they?” I pressed.

“I’ve never heard o’ them, and don’t ask me again,” he growled, pulling his jacket from the hook beside the back door and hobbling out. He slammed it in his wake and then opened it again. “And, please let me know if you spend any more nights at this lad’s place.” He shook his head as he retreated.

This area of the town had certainly not been revamped for tourism. To my right, a worn corner store caught my eye—a good start. I headed down the lane beside it, which was named Saltmarsh Row. Rounding a corner, I passed a dilapidated dry cleaner and a closed takeout diner. The next building was a pub that looked like a stone house. The paint was peeling from its white walls, and the faded sign read, “The Port House.” An old coil of rope, its bends now blackened, had been artfully positioned beside a carved wooden fish at the entrance. Beside it was the bookstore. It was a small—also whitewashed stone—building. I would have passed straight by if not for the crooked “BOOKS” sign in the grimy window. The shop seemed to lack a proper name.

When I opened the door, a bell tinkled somewhere, but I couldn’t see any staff, so I began to browse. The scent of aging paper and leather bindings enveloped me. Shelves, haphazardly packed with books, reached ambitiously toward the rafters. Some volumes were neatly aligned, while others were piled in teetering stacks that looked like they hadn’t been disturbed in years. I made my way through the narrow aisles until I found a factual section. Flipping through town history books, I saw no mention of Selkies.

“H-herm.”

The cough made me jump, and I dropped Wild and Wonderful Sea Life of the Atlantic . It sent dust particles flying as it hit the wooden floor.

“Can I help you?”

I turned to see a little gray-haired woman standing behind me. She had dark skin and many smile lines around her eyes.

“I was looking for a book on Selkies.” I rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet, and the dusty floorboards creaked.

“Selkies,” the woman repeated, reaching down to retrieve the open book I had dropped. “You’re in the wrong section. It’s fiction you’ll be wanting.” She shuffled toward an aisle at the back of the store.

“No, no, I don’t think so. I’m looking for an animal that lives in these waters,” I called after her, remaining in the nonfiction section.

“Aye, but you asked for Selkies, if I heard you right. So, you’ll be wanting this.” She held up a dusty black book. “But there’s no Selkies in these waters, lass.” She shuffled back toward me, holding the hardcover. The title was embossed in golden lettering: Mythical Creatures of the Water .

The old woman opened it and pointed to chapter six in the index.

I took the book from her, hands trembling. I waited until she shuffled back to the counter at the furthest point of the store before I flicked the book to “Chapter Six: Selkies” and dragged my finger to the first line of text. “Selkies are fantastical creatures from Celtic and Icelandic folklore. The Selkie Legend of Orkney . . .”

“You may also want this book.” The voice startled me, and I turned to see the young man from my grandmother’s funeral rising from a threadbare armchair in a dark corner. I took in his brown skin, dark hair, and amber eyes. He was wearing a plain black T-shirt, knee-length gray shorts, and a lanyard.

“Don’t mind my aunty.” He grinned as he ran his fingers across the titles I had initially been browsing in the nonfiction section. “She looks after this store while my mom is away and hates every minute of it.” He gestured at the old lady behind the counter, grumbling as she straightened books. His gentle caress stopped on a green-spined title, and he held it out to me: Myths & Legends of Ruadán’s Port.

“Is it fiction?” I asked, running my hands over the cover, which depicted an artist’s impression of Merrow Rocks jutting into the ocean.

“It depends on who you’re talking to. I keep it in the nonfiction section.” He smiled again, flashing his perfectly white teeth.

“Do you think some things people think are mythology could be real?” I lowered my voice as his aunty hobbled to the glowing entrance of a room at the back of the shop, disappearing behind a dark wooden door. I knew this was an overly philosophical question to ask someone you’d just met, but something about his presence made me feel at ease.

“The myths had to come from somewhere.” He leaned on the dusty shelf and surveyed me with his brown eyes. “You’re Iona’s granddaughter.” His voice was as soft as the caramel of his skin. I sensed a warmth and gentleness in him. This was a welcome change from the things I usually sensed in men.

“Yes, I remember you from the funeral.”

“I’m Aranare Williamson.” He wiped the dust from his palms on his shorts and held out his hand.

“How did you know my grandmother?” I asked, pulling the books into my left arm to shake it.

“She visited the store sometimes to see my mother. They traveled together. Why are you so interested in learning about the mythology of the ocean?” Aranare’s topaz eyes gleamed as they swept over me.

I spluttered the first thing that came into my head. “I, uh, I’m writing a book!”

“Where is it set?” he asked, straightening some of the volumes on the shelf beside us. I didn’t know why he bothered when the rest of the shop seemed in disarray, but I couldn’t help but notice his forearms. They were muscular but not overly so, like the arms of a swimmer.

“Well . . . here,” I said, continuing with my half-truth, half-lie.

“In that case, you better take both books. You can’t write about Ruadán’s Port without understanding the local legends. This has been a port town for hundreds of years—many strange things used to pass through these shores.”

His book straightening had led him closer to me. He was tall. Looking straight ahead, my eyeline came to the top of his chest.

“How much do I owe you?” I laughed.

“Twenty-six pounds.” A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

We made our way to the counter. Nestled at the very back of the store, its surface was almost entirely obscured by a miscellany of objects. Beside the register, stacks of books leaned precariously, awaiting purchase or return to the shelves.

“There’s an EFTPOS machine here somewhere, don’t worry.” Aranare ducked under the counter. The wall space around it was lined with shelves crammed with rare-looking books. “Here you go.” He shoved the clutter aside and offered me a modern machine.

As I tapped my card, I felt the radiating warmth from his palms. For a moment, I was tempted to linger, savoring the heat. Instead, I thanked him and slid the books into my satchel.

“Oh, and Morgana.” Aranare’s amber eyes softened. “I was sorry about your father.”

The ground seemed to slide out from beneath me. I swallowed. “My father . . . You knew him?” The blood was pumping so loudly in my ears that I wondered if I would be able to hear Aranare’s response.

“I was fourteen when he died, but I knew Rory and your mother, Anna, too. The port is a very small place.” His eyes had a pained look, and his emotions washed over me. Sympathy.

Suddenly, I didn’t care about the books or the underwater world . My father . Rory. For the first time in my life, he had a name.

“How did he die?” A knot formed in my throat as I said the words. I tried to busy myself by buckling my satchel, but my hands were trembling.

“You don’t know?” Aranare’s brows furrowed in confusion as he stepped from behind the counter and touched my back.

I shook my head, scared tears would burst from me if I spoke.

“Aranare!” His aunt appeared, carrying a stack of books. “Are you going to help me get these out to customers or stand chatting all day?”

I brushed his hand off and stepped away from the counter.

“I have to help my aunty, but Mom’s back tomorrow. Why don’t you meet me for lunch at Bayside? My uncle owns the café under the Ferris wheel. Do you know it?”

I nodded.

Aranare’s aunty turned her dark eyes on me. “I was sorry to hear about your father and your gran as well, lass. The sea takes and it gives. Your grandfather stole from the sea, so it took back. Run along, and Aranare will fill you in on the morn.”