Page 3 of Sea of Evil and Desire (The Deep Saga #1)

1

Morgana

T he ringing seemed shrill and urgent. I was overwhelmed with a sense of dread. For twenty years, I’d been plagued by the feelings of others. I hoped they were wrong this time, but in my experience, they were always right.

“I’ll get it, Morgana.” Mom gestured for me to stay seated for dinner and moved toward the phone.

I knew the caller would either be my grandparents or a telemarketer—they were the only ones who ever rang the landline.

My apprehension deepened as Mom listened to the person speaking. She turned pale and stifled a howl.

I dropped my fork.

“Dead? No, that can’t be right! She was old, but she wasn’t sick. She always seemed younger than other women her age.” Mom pressed her forehead against the stained kitchen wall. “Tell me everything.”

I crept into her bedroom to pick up the other receiver. I was used to hearing my grandmother’s warm Scottish accent on the other end of the line, asking me about school, recommending books to read, or telling me about her travels to faraway countries.

“Robbie found her and called us,” a man with a brogue accent said as I lifted the phone to my ear. He sounded like a deputy—professional, polite. I found myself thinking of what my grandfather’s face must have looked like when he discovered her. I didn’t know him well, but now, I pictured him crumpling. My heart was hammering, and the corners of my eyes stung, but I couldn’t put the phone down.

“Where is my father? Can I speak with him?” I could tell Mom was trying to be strong, but her voice was breaking.

“Sorry, Mrs. Scott. He’s not able to come to the phone. In shock, I don’t doubt. That is why I am making the call.”

How many calls had the deputy made like this? If he was struggling, he didn’t show it.

“So, she had a cardiac arrest. Is that what you’re saying?” Mom—the most analytical, unemotional woman I knew—was choking back tears.

“Aye, the paramedic said her heart stopped.”

Mom didn’t reply. She was drawing shuddering sobs. I picked at some loose threads on the red woolen blanket at the end of her bed.

“There was water on the kitchen floor when we arrived, but your mother’s body was bone dry,” the deputy continued, his tone flat, as if listing routine facts. “We searched for signs of electrical shock but found nothing. There was a deep cut on her right palm. We thought maybe she’d slashed herself and taken a fall, but there was no bloodstained knife to be found anywhere in the kitchen.”

“Wait a minute.” Mom’s voice was sharper now. “Are you saying there is a possibility this was suspicious?”

I stiffened. My eyes were still burning, but I hadn’t shed a tear. I could only listen and pick at the ugly red throw.

“Robbie said the doors were locked when he arrived home. There was no sign of forced entry, so we are ruling out foul play. Though I’ll admit, the cut was a bit strange, given the absence of a knife. And there was a smell—”

“Okay, I don’t need to hear this.” Mom sounded angry now.

“You’ve got me wrong. I meant there was a smell in the house, like seaweed or fish,” the deputy stammered.

“I . . . Ah, well, that must be from Robbie. He spends most days at sea.”

“Aye, that would make sense. Look, Mrs. Scott, Robbie’s no’ doing well. He’s barely saying a word. Could you get someone to come stay with him?”

Mom was silent.

I sucked in a breath.

My mother grew up in Ruadán’s Port, a small coastal town in Scotland situated on the Western tip of the Isle of Islay, but she left before I turned one. I’d always suspected her move to the Midwest had something to do with my father, but she refused to talk about him. She gave me her last name and never mentioned his. Even now, she couldn’t bear to return. Although my grandmother would visit us during her travels, I hardly knew my grandfather, who hated flying.

Mom still hadn’t answered the deputy, but I could hear her inhaling sharply. Perhaps she was hyperventilating.

After another awkward pause, he said, “I’d best be getting back. Please contact me at the Bowmore police station if you need anything.”

Mom remained silent. The loose threads on the throw had become a hole, and I was curling my finger through it.

“And Mrs. Scott . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Mom offered a strangled murmur before the phone clicked off. I was left sitting on the bed, unable to move, the dial tone blaring in my ear.

My mother begrudgingly drove me to the airport the next day. She couldn’t argue with my decision to go, because Granddad had no one else, and she couldn’t bring herself to return to her hometown.

I watched the houses of Kansas City suburbia fly by outside the car window, and I couldn’t help but think about how different Ruadán’s Port would be. My grandmother had told me stories about the place and its history. It had gotten its name in the 1700s, when it still operated a thriving seaport—one of the smallest in Scotland—but the port’s decline began when the primary trade route to Ireland was redirected to nearby Port Ellen. The place was a ghost town now. Once or twice, I had asked my grandmother if I could visit her, but she was always adamant I would hate the place.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mom asked as we loaded my suitcase onto the conveyor belt.

I threw her an exasperated stare.

“What about college?” she persisted.

Deferring college was an easy choice as high school’s sensory overload had driven me to avoid people entirely. As I walked down the corridor, I would feel it: the love emanating from a girl clutching her books against her chest, the arousal of a jock as he looked at his teammates, the suicidal thoughts of the boy trailing against the wall . . . It was all-consuming.

“Mom, I’m doing it for her ,” I said, collecting my passport back from the agent at the gate.

I’d always felt a strange connection to my grandmother. There was something about her presence I found soothing. I remember watching her move around our kitchen in Kansas City, her hips swaying and her long, gray-streaked hair falling gently down her back. When I was younger, she’d read me poems about the ocean and taught me how to draw mermaids .

Mom nodded and toyed with the ugly antique ring she wore on a chain around her neck. Her face remained hard, but I sensed her emotions: sadness, fear, and most of all, relief. Relief that it was me going and not her.

My mother and I were polar opposites, not just in our personalities but in how we looked. The only pieces I had of my father were my green eyes and red hair. The rest of the Scott family were dark. Sometimes, I wondered if my appearance was what made her so drawn around me.

Mom gave me a short, strained hug, more affection than she usually offered, and then stepped back. “I’ve enrolled you in Ruadán’s Port Medical for your . . . condition . . .” she called after me as I slipped into the flow of people streaming through the gate.

I waved her off with a cheery, plastered-on smile. My “condition” was one of the reasons I wanted to leave this city, to leave her. I didn’t want to see another doctor. My grandmother had never felt anything was wrong with me; she always said I was simply intuitive, which was one reason I loved her. I wished I hadn’t taken no for an answer when she was alive and just gone ahead and visited her, but at least I could do this now.

It was an almost fifteen-hour flight—with a layover—from Kansas City to Glasgow, where my grandfather was going to pick me up with his friend, Barry. From there, we would drive the five and a half hours to Ruadán’s Port.

A tangle of hair, sweat, and luggage, I finally boarded. Navigating the cramped aisle, I hauled my carry-on behind me, my satchel weighing down one shoulder.

“How are you?” The man in the seat next to mine grinned as I stowed my bag in the overhead bin. He had slightly crooked front teeth and the beginnings of a beard. His gaze moved slowly from my head to my waist as he took me in, and his desire washed over me. Fifteen hours . . . of this.

“I’m fine,” I muttered as I slid in beside him.

“Flying alone?” I sensed his glee at being seated next to a girl he found attractive.

“Yep.” I shot him an awkward grin and started fiddling with the television screen, pretending I knew how to use it, but I’d never been on an international flight before.

The man continued to survey me, and I sensed his unfaltering attraction. I pulled my headphones out of my satchel, pressing play on my music. I should have been used to the emotions of others by now, but it never got easier, especially in such proximity.

On second thought . . . I reached back into my satchel and grabbed my Xanax.

Mom had dragged me to multiple therapists, who’d diagnosed me with different disorders and prescribed me different pills. Some made me jittery, some sleepy, and others made me feel nothing. I didn’t normally take them, but in situations like this, the Xanax helped.

I awoke drenched in sweat. It was the same nightmare—the black, swirling darkness, the same cries for help. There was a rushing sound, and red eyes peered out at me.

This was nothing new. The nightmares had plagued me for as long as I could remember, but a new character had appeared this time. A handsome man had stepped out of the darkness and smiled at me. His eyes weren’t red; they were obsidian. I was drawn to this man in the dream, but at the same time, something about him flooded my body with warning.

I lost myself in the in-flight entertainment for the rest of the journey. When I finally landed in Glasgow, rain streaked the plane windows. The man I’d been seated beside tried to start another conversation as we waited for our bags, and relief coursed through me when mine was one of the first suitcases out.

I recognized my granddad as I pushed through the people streaming out the arrivals gate. He was standing next to a younger yet equally weather-beaten man with dark, graying hair and pale skin.

“You must be Morgana! I’m Barry.” The dark-haired man pulled me into a big embrace. His emotions washed over me—a rush of sympathy. “How’s Anna doing?” he asked as he let go.

“Mom’s okay . . .” I thought of her steely exterior, which had reappeared as soon as she’d hung up the phone on the deputy.

I turned to my grandfather. I hadn’t seen him in person for years, but he looked much the same, with tanned, battered skin and dark eyes. His once-ebony hair was almost all gray now. He nodded hello and gave me an uncomfortable hug, which he withdrew from quickly.

Barry drove a white truck, and he slung my two suitcases into the back, where they joined a collection of fishing tackle and buckets. Granddad hadn’t yet spoken to me. Was he always like this, or was it grief? I was relieved Barry was there to diffuse the awkwardness.

I stared out the window, watching the scenery flicker by, and wondered if I had made the right decision coming here. Everything felt foreign: the rolling green hills and the weather, which had transitioned from torrential, stormy rain to a brilliant sunny day and then back to rain, all in the space of half an hour. I couldn’t deny the place’s magic as we whizzed past an old castle and more stone fences nestled amid the green, and passed a giant body of water—a loch. My grandmother had told me stories about them and the famous Loch Ness Monster.

“You ready to trade city lights for the sound of waves crashing against the rocks, lass?” Barry surveyed me in the rearview mirror as we pulled into Kennacraig, where we would be getting the ferry to the Isle of Islay.

“Honestly, I’m not sure yet,” I confessed, peering over his shoulder at the dark waters ahead. We had been traveling for at least three hours now, and I was ready to stretch my legs.

“The sea has a way of growing on you. It’s in your blood, whether you know it or not.” My granddad’s croaky voice caused me to jump. It was the first time he’d spoken.

Barry’s truck rattled onto the ferry’s metal ramp, tires splashing through puddles as the wind carried the scent of salt and diesel into the vehicle deck.

Leaving the truck behind, we climbed metal stairs to the open area, and a sudden rush of salty air stole my breath as the sea appeared. The wind tangled through my hair, lifting it in wild strands as if the waves were reaching for me. I’d never seen the ocean in real life before, and as it unfolded before me, a mass of deep blues and grays, I was transfixed. The scent of brine filled my senses, and for a moment, I stood motionless, drinking it in and letting the spray from the ferry pepper my face.

Two hours later, we were back in Barry’s old truck, rumbling across the isle.

“You want a job, Morgana?” Barry’s dark eyes found mine again in the rearview mirror as we passed a white, weather-worn road sign: “You are now entering Ruadán’s Port.”

“I— Ah—” Mom had been nagging me to hand my resume in at one of the Kansas City malls, but there were too many people there. But here, there were fewer people—fewer things to sense.

“I’ve got a wee souvenir shop at Bayside shopping center. My son Jamie’s been running the place, but he can’t stand it.”

“Okay.”

I found myself grinning. Freedom . That’s what a job would offer me, along with some means to support my grandfather. We weren’t dirt poor, but Granddad was retired on the State Pension, and Mom didn’t have much money to spare as a single parent on a low-level accountant’s salary.

We drove up the small hill where my grandparents’ house stood. From the top, the town spread out beneath us. A cluster of whitewashed stone houses led to the sea.

“Shall we go have a look?” Barry asked.

I nodded, and he continued past the driveway he’d been about to pull into. The bay opened before us at the end of the street as Barry parked the truck in a spot facing the ocean.

“Ruadán’s Port, eh? Not quite what you’re used to in the big city, lass. No coffee chains, but we’ve a view that could make a poet out of anyone.”

The town was nestled along a rugged coastline. The harbor was an inlet bordered by rocky outcrops, creating a natural shelter for small boats. The breakwater curved gently, hugging the sea and adding to the enclosed feel of the harbor, while the open water beyond stretched out to meet the horizon. Straight ahead was a gray wooden jetty, and beyond it, the Atlantic Ocean shimmered, a rolling, steely-colored expanse reflecting the shades of the overcast sky.

“Bayside is the town’s only shopping center.” Barry wound down his window, and I was hit with a gust of salty sea air as he gestured to the cliff face on our right.

Perched on its top, a carriage-less Ferris wheel loomed, its silhouette ominous against the tumbled gray sky.

“The Ferris wheel and those new houses were constructed three years ago to attract tourists, but they never did get the wheel working. Stupid spot to put it, if you ask me,” he muttered.

A slew of modern large-windowed houses were nestled into the cliff on the slice of land making up the bay’s right side. On the left arm, a mass of black rocks jutted into the ocean, and above them, an old stone lighthouse stood.

As I looked out over the view, thunder rumbled, and dark clouds moved in on the horizon. The wind blasted through Barry’s open window, and the Ferris wheel on the cliff began to spin.

“Another gale, and they still haven’t found those wee kids who were swept away,” Barry said sadly as he restarted the truck’s engine.

“There’s no hope for them now,” my granddad rasped. “The water’s far too cold, even at this time o’ year.”

The hairs on my arms prickled. It was October—the end of fall. What would this place be like in winter?

“The sea gives us so much, but sometimes it needs to take something back.” Barry sighed. “You’ll want to steer clear of Merrow Rocks at night. This place is full o’ strange tales. Not that you should believe half of what folks here say.”

As we pulled away, I gazed at the cluster of black rocks stretching into the water. The waves tossed in the wind, leaving them glistening with spray.

Back in front of my grandparents’ whitewashed stone home, Barry hauled my suitcases from the truck and turned to Granddad. “Shall we head out to sea when this bad weather clears?” he asked, leaning on his open door, squinting at the darkening horizon.

My granddad nodded, and I was shocked. He seemed too old to go out on the wild ocean. Then I thought about his strong, weather-beaten hands. The man had been at sea his whole life; why would he stop now?

Like the others on the street, my grandparents’ house was old and whitewashed. It was stone, with small square windows hemmed by dark shutters. The roof was pointed for the most part, but one section protruded into a tower.

“Your room will be up there, adjacent to the attic,” Granddad said gruffly, nodding at the tower. “You must be tired after your trip.”

Evening had set in, and I was tired. Once I’d heaved my suitcases up the narrow, winding stairs, I found that my room and the attic were filled with boxes of my grandmother’s treasures. The passing thought tightened my heart. She’d often brought me presents from her travels: a worry doll from Guatemala, Baoding balls from China, and a pashmina shawl from India. Now, I would be sleeping among the remains of her adventures, the things she had boxed up and brought home. I didn’t mind; I thought it was the best room in the house, although it was permeated by a musky odor.

I stowed some clothes in the oak dresser adorned with three dusty mirrors and took in the rest of the room: white walls, a single bed with a patchwork quilt, an old wooden wardrobe, and a square window with lacy white curtains. My grandfather’s room, kitchen, living room, study, and a shared bathroom were downstairs.

Thunder cracked, and rain beat against the window. The sound was soothing, and I sprawled on the small bed, falling asleep in all my clothes.

Cool morning light filtered through my bedroom window. I was drenched in sweat from my nightmares. How long had I slept?

Outside, the storm had passed, and the ocean was sighing behind the whitewashed houses leading down the hill. In the half-light, the waves looked mauve. It must have been early, perhaps 8 a.m.

I inched down the narrow staircase from the tower to the hall and crept along the dark passage toward the sound of faint chatter from the television in the living room. I paused as I passed some black-and-white pictures hanging on the wall. Even in the dimness, my grandmother’s smile caught my eye. In the photo, she was wearing one of her linen suits and a white Panama hat with a black band that made her look like an archaeologist. She was holding my mother, who was wrapped in swaddling clothes.

I met my grandmother’s dark gaze and whispered, “I’ll take good care of him.” But I wasn’t sure I could deliver on that promise, as I often struggled with the simplest tasks, like finding two matching socks.

I reached the doorway to the living room and peered in. Grandpa was sitting in his armchair in the darkness.

He was rocking slowly, and I sensed his sadness. It filled the room and seeped out the door. It was suffocating. He had one of my grandmother’s long furs splayed out over his legs.

As he ran his shaky hands over the coat, I wanted to grab it from him. I caught myself, gripping the doorframe. What was I thinking?

Hunger gnawed at me, and I crept behind him toward the kitchen. I should probably make something for us both to eat.

“Morgana, is that you?”

I froze. Granddad’s armchair creaked, and the morning newscaster prattled softly as I moved to his side. He grasped me gently by the wrist, his hand calloused from years at sea, the television light illuminating his sorrowful face from one side.

“She’d have wanted you to have this.” He gestured toward the coat, tears pooling at the rims of his dark eyes.

I clutched it to my chest. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered, fingering the soft gray fur. I was overwhelmed by a deep longing; it was as if he had just handed me something I had been searching for all my life. I held it close and breathed in its scent.

“Aye, she’d be happy I did this. Maybe she will forgive me now,” he murmured, almost to himself.

I lifted my face from the soft fur, the memory of my grandmother, the smell of her. “There’s nothing to forgive,” I said. “She loved you!” I wished I had words to ease his pain.

“Aye . . .” He sighed, and his sadness now seemed heavier, mixed with something else: guilt. It was as if I had stepped into a vortex of emotions, and the combination nauseated me. I gripped the arm of his chair to steady myself, and I was surprised to feel his fingers atop mine.

“Now leave me,” he said, and patted my hand.

A morning glow had begun to tease the edges of the horizon as I padded into the kitchen with the coat still in my arms. A fluorescent glare filled the room as I flicked the light switch. The simple wooden chairs cast outlines across the white lace tablecloth, which, now washed and worn, told the story of my grandparents’ life here.

This was the room where they’d found her sprawled out on the floor next to the sink.

I threw the coat over a chair, pulled a box of cornflakes from one of the white wooden cupboards, and paused as I reached for the milk. The fur’s mottled pattern caught my eye. Leaving the fridge ajar and the milk on the counter, I threw the coat over my shoulders. It held just enough weight to feel comforting, but not enough to bear me down. I slipped my arms down the sleeves. The lining was cool.

A beep from the open fridge reminded me of my half-made breakfast. I finished pouring my cereal, but I kept the coat on as I ate it and washed my bowl.

Granddad had turned up the television in the living room, so I returned to his side to give him a hot cup of tea.

“The search for the brother and sister believed to have been swept from Merrow Rocks has been called off . . .” the newscaster said somberly.

“We will scatter her ashes in the bay this morning if you want to come.” Granddad’s croaky voice penetrated the darkness as he took the tea in his shaky hands.

I nodded.

His eyes were on the coat. “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, and I found myself pulling its soft folds around me protectively, as if he might leap from his armchair and take it back.

I returned to the tower to dress for the funeral as the newscaster talked chirpily about sporting news. The lost kids were forgotten.

I’d never been to a funeral before, but I’d seen my fair share of them on Netflix. I knew people usually wore black, so I hung my grandmother’s fur coat in the wooden wardrobe and threw on a black dress. Glancing out the window, I pulled stockings and a jacket out of my bag.

Granddad and I walked down the hill in silence. Something about him seemed lighter, as if a weight had been removed from his chest when he gave me the jacket. I kept myself neutral as these emotions engulfed me, just as I’d done with his sadness. I had a fresh start here. I didn’t want Granddad to start dragging me to doctors the way Mom had, although knowing her, she’d already warned him of my “condition.”

The path wound down to the bay, where the briny tang of the Atlantic greeted the air. When we reached the jagged rocks that led to the gray sandy beach, I tried to help Granddad, but he brushed me away.

My grandmother’s funeral was nothing like the ones I had seen on Netflix, which always included a somber procession of many well-wishers. There was no coffin. Instead, my grandfather drew a small silver box holding her ashes from beneath his arm. Only five people awaited us on the shore. I recognized Barry and his son Jamie, who had the same dark hair and sallow skin as his father. The other three people I didn’t know.

Barry nodded at them as Granddad and I approached. “They’re the Williamson family. They own half o’ this town. Louisa was friends with your grandmother.”

Louisa was standing between two brown-skinned men. Unlike them, she was fair, and she must have been old—perhaps in her seventies, as her shoulder-length hair was entirely silver. She wore a beige cardigan and loose slacks with a brown belt, like my grandmother used to wear.

One of the men had his arm around Louisa’s waist. He looked younger than her, maybe fifty, with dark shoulder-length wavy hair. The second man was younger still—not much older than me. Perhaps he was their son. His amber eyes met mine, and he offered me a grin. He had a pleasant face, straight white teeth, and brown hair tousled by the wind.

Everyone was looking at my grandfather, who was still holding the box. He looked as if he might be about to say something, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a choked sob.

“F-forgive me, Iona,” was all he could manage.

He tried to open the box, but his hands were shaking so badly that Barry had to help. As soon as the lid came away, the ashes were swept up by the sea breeze. The sun came out as the wind took the little gray flecks in its arms, and the sky became a brilliant blue. The grass on the clifftops was a lush green.

The sea rippled as glistening heads emerged. I gasped. Seals ! Their dark eyes gleamed like polished stones in the morning light. They watched us with curiosity, whiskers twitching. Their eyes were so . . . human.

As the last of my grandmother was swallowed by elements, the seals slipped back beneath the waves. Granddad shook with tears, dropping the empty silver container onto the sand.

Barry put his hand on Granddad’s back, and I retrieved the box. There was a carving on its lid. I ran my fingers across it. It was badly worn, but it looked like some sort of insignia. I could make out a circle with a wave in the middle, and around it, there were five pictures . . . a skull and a mermaid, but the others were too faded to recognize.

“What is this box?” I asked, handing it back to my grandfather.

“It—it was hers. I think she got it on her travels,” he rasped, clutching it to his chest.

His aching sadness washed over me, and in that moment of laxness, the emotions emanating from the rest of the group wrapped around me, suffocating and inescapable. As sentiments of sorrow and sympathy flooded my being, I faltered.

Barry was staring at me, concern knotting his dark brows. Tears burst onto my cheeks, and I waved him off.

The lady called Louisa was watching me, too, and her eyes widened with something—fear. It mingled with the sadness. Barry made as if to leave Granddad’s side and comfort me, but I waved him off again. I did my best to make my face neutral, but the emotions were overwhelming. Nodding apologies, I left the group and wandered along the sandy beach. I made my way toward the end of the jetty that stretched across the ocean.

To my right, the Ferris wheel towered above on the sloping green clifftop, overlooking the concrete-framed inlet. Before me, the sea opened between the bay’s two arms, rugged and empty.

I shoved my headphones in, escaping in my music, and loitered on the jetty until the other funeral goers and their emotions had dispersed.

I was returning to my grandparents’ house when I noticed him—the man from my dream. He stood on the concrete boardwalk, watching me as I made my way along the sand. His arms were folded across his chest, and the wind pushed his dark hair about. He was wearing black jeans and a dark coat, just like in my dream. Stop being stupid , I told myself. You don’t just dream of people and then see them!

A shiver raced down my spine as I stopped and dragged my gaze to his. He didn’t look away, and I was overcome with the same urge to go to him I’d had in the dream, but also the same prickle at the back of my neck warning me to stay away.

I scrambled back up the black rocks that led to the boardwalk. When I reached the top, I looked for the man again, but he was nowhere to be seen.