Sea Fever (27 page)

him with her child?

She stretched out her hands. “Please. Bring him back to me.”

* * *

Dylan stood on the cliffs, clutching a ragged stuffed bear with a

draggled red bow. Nick’s. Before he left, Regina had given him the toy,

fear in her voice and her heart in her eyes. “Bring him back to me.”

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The sun bled over the bruised sea, staining the clouds like dirty

bandages. In half an hour, they would lose the light. While Dylan could

see well enough in the dark, the human searchers Caleb had mustered

could not.

Somewhere, Nick would be in the dark, alone.

At least, Dylan hoped the boy was alone.

In his mind, he saw the selkie Gwyneth. Not as he’d known her in

life, a small, voracious blonde with slumberouseyes and a sharp white

smile. But as he’d last seen her in death after the demon Tan was done

with her, her flesh torn and purpled. The image chilled Dylan’s blood.

The thought of Nick— a human child, Regina’s son— in demon hands, in

similar circumstances, made him break into a cold sweat.

His hand closed hard on the bear as if he could squeeze Nick’s

whereabouts from plush and stuffing. Memories clung to the matted fur

like the scent of laundry soap and baby shampoo. Traces of Regina, her

laughter, her love, a quick and careless hug. Traces of Nick, sick and

sleepy, snuggled and secure. But none of those warm and hazy

impressions yielded a clue to the boy’s location. The bear had a

connection to Nick; Dylan did not. He could not use the toy as he had

used Regina’s cross, to fix on its owner.

Spreading his arms, he shut his eyes and tried to call up Nick’s thin

face against the dark.

He emptied himself, pouring out his power like water on the ground,

straining for a hint, a trace, a sign. He could feel Nick’s absence

throbbing in his head like a missing tooth or the pain of an amputated

limb. His senses sharpened and expanded. He could hear the wind in the

trees and the water on the rocks, the yammer of a gull, the putt of an

engine. He could smell the scents of juniper and bayberry, the tang of

rockweed and saltwater.

But he could not sense Regina’s son. Nothing shouted “Nick” at

him, nothing smelled like “boy.” Only the rush of the waves, the scent of

the water . . .

Dylan’s breath hissed. The rush of the waves.

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The tide was rising.

Cold settled in his bones. He had to find Nick. Now.

* * *

Regina scoured pots and prayed as if she could save her son through

sheer application. Scrubbing kept her hands busy and her mind occupied,

distracted her from the pain in her back and the ache at her heart.

Hail, Mary, full of grace . . .

Regina took a deep breath and attacked a crud-encrusted pan,

struggling to ignore the silent phone, the crawling clock, the anger and

panic simmering in her chest.

It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

From the moment the delivery nurse had laid Nick’s downy dark

head on Regina’s breast, she’d negotiated a bargain with God. She would

take the five miserable months of morning sickness, the twenty-six long

and lonely hours of labor, nights of no sleep, years with no sex, in

exchange for this miracle. Her boy.

Regina would do anything, endure anything, sacrifice anything, in

return for her son. Anything to keep him. Anything to keep him safe.

Regina plunged another pot into the sink. Except she’d screwed up.

Literally. She’d had sex. More than once. She’d left her child to go off

with Dylan, and now Nick was gone.

She hadn’t protected him. She couldn’t even join the search. All she

could do was wait by the phone and trust Dylan to find him.

And try to make another deal with God.

She scrubbed until her fingers were pale and pruny, until the ache in

her back was paired by a low, persistent pain in her gut. Sweat filmed her

face and stung her eyes. Or maybe those were tears.

She blinked and bit her lip as another spasm stabbed her. Not good.

She hadn’t . . . With Nick, she’d never . . .

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Oh. She doubled over in pain, clutching the rim of the sink.

Breathe. In through her nose, out through her . . . Ow. Oh.

“Regina?” Her mother’s voice, dim and concerned.

Regina inhaled. Straightened, still gripping the edge of the sink. “I’m

all right.” She had to be all right.

Antonia was not convinced. Her dark, hard eyes examined her

daughter’s face. “Your cheeks are all red. Go to the bathroom, wash your

face.”

Regina nodded. Her head felt wobbly. “You have to . . . listen for the

phone.”

“Hell, girl, I know that. Take your break.”

Yes. Okay. Regina took little steps to the restroom, cautious as an

old woman with a walker.

It’s just nerves, she told herself. Stress. As soon as she rinsed her

face, sat down a minute, she’d be fine.

She pushed open the door to the women’s room; splashed cold water

on her face and hands before she entered a stall.

Legs shaking, she sank down on the toilet.

They were still shaking minutes later as she teetered back into the

kitchen, one hand on the wall for support.

Antonia took one look at her face and scowled. “Regina? Baby?

What is it?”

“Mama . . .” Her voice broke. “I’m bleeding.”

* * *

Nick was not in the caves.

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Driven by desperation and the rising tide, Dylan had searched the

hole where the demon had dumped Regina and then the tunnels beyond.

Nick wasn’t there. Or had wiggled out of range of his voice.

Or . . . Dylan stared out at the darkening sea and purple sky, forcing

himself to consider the possibilities. Maybe Nick couldn’t answer. Maybe

the boy was bound, gagged, dead.

Or would be dead soon.

The tide rattled over the stones, black and silver, like a chain. Dylan

inhaled through clenched teeth, the weight of failure on his chest like the

pressure of a deep dive. He was not a warden or a cop. He did not have

Conn’s power or Caleb’s position. But he was here. Regina was counting

on him. Nick needed him. He had to find a link to Nick.

Or the kid could die.

Dylan ground his jaw. What did he know about links and

connections? He’d spent the past twenty years avoiding human contact,

cutting all human ties. He was out of his element, he’d confessed to

Regina. In over his head. But he’d be damned before he’d leave her to

sink or swim alone.

The sea reached long, pale fingers over the rocks, plucking at his

feet. Through the clouds, the moon shimmered like a silver coin at the

bottom of a bucket.

Dylan’s breath caught. Like a coin . . .

* * *

“Bleeding, yes,” Antonia said into the phone. Regina watched dully

from the kitchen stool. “I don’t know, I’ll ask her. Did you throw up?”

she asked her daughter.

Regina swallowed hard and shook her head. She hadn’t wanted this

baby. It was a mistake. An inconvenience. A disaster. But it was hers

now, hers and Dylan’s. She crossed her arms over her stomach as if she

could hold it inside.

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“No vomiting,” Antonia told the doctor, her fingers almost blue,

wrapped tight around the phone cord. “No, I haven’t taken her

temperature. All right. Yes, we will. I’ll tell her.”

Antonia hung up. “Donna wants to see you at the clinic. She’ll be

out front in ten minutes to pick you up.”

Regina bit her lip. “Can’t she examine me here? The phone . . .”

Antonia scowled. “I’ll take care of the phone. You take care of

yourself.”

Herself and the baby. Regina’s hand crept to the cross around her

neck; fingered the pearl. Her son was out there somewhere, lost. She

couldn’t lose this baby, too. Heaven couldn’t be so cruel.

“Ten minutes?”

“That’s what she said.” Antonia’s mouth set in a hard, grim line. Her

eyes were dark and concerned. She fumbled in her apron pocket for her

cigarettes; put them back again. “You need anything from upstairs?”

Regina forced a smile for her mother’s sake. “Thanks, Ma. I’m

good.”

Antonia’s work-roughened hand smoothed her daughter’s hair. “The

best,” she said.

Another cramp ripped her like a knife. Regina closed her eyes and

leaned into her mother’s hand.

* * *

Dylan called the wind to his sails until they swelled full-bellied as

the moon. Another sign? he wondered. Or an illusion?

The silver dollar he had given Nick beamed a steady signal like the

lighthouse at the island’s edge or a dot on Conn’s map of the world. The

water rippled white under his prow, following the coin’s pull like a

compass needle drawn true north. The boat moved by magic between the

dark and the deep, between the vastness brimming with life below and a

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greater vastness sprinkled with stars. This was Dylan’s element. His lips

peeled back from his teeth. The demons had invaded his territory.

But there were a thousand islands off the coast of Maine, mostly

uninhabited fortresses of spruce and stone, incursions of molten magma

through the earth’s crust. Nick could be hidden anywhere. Or lying at the

bottom of the sea. The fire spawn could have tossed him overboard as a

warning or out of spite.

From another shore, the sea birds keened over something dead.

“He has no value to them.”

“Please, bring him back to me.”

Dylan clenched the rudder and thought about the coin. Focused on

the coin. As long as he felt that small, bright tug, he allowed himself to

hope.

* * *

“You can’t blame yourself.” Donna Tomah’s voice was gentle and

compassionate. Her eyes were bright and cold. Regina pressed her thighs

together, shivering under the stupid paper sheet. “There’s no evidence

that either sexual activity or stress can cause an abortion.”

“Not her fault” was good. But . . .

“Miscarriage,” Regina corrected.

The doctor raised her eyebrows. “I was speaking medically.”

Regina felt her face turn red. “Right. So, can you stop it?”

Donna hesitated. “Often an abortion— or miscarriage, if you

prefer— can’t be prevented. And shouldn’t be. It’s usually an indication

that the pregnancy isn’t normal.”

Regina supposed having a selkie father and a human mother

qualified as unusual. But Dylan had said the baby was normal. Human.

For now. “Is something wrong with my baby?”

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“It’s possible.”

Just this once, Regina wished she had a hand to hold when

somebody delivered bad news. She bunched her fists at her waist,

wrinkling the paper sheet. “How can you tell?”

“We can’t, unfortunately.”

“Then why the hell am I here? What are you going to do?”

“We need to confirm that your pregnancy is in fact terminating,”

Donna said steadily. “We’ll do a pelvic exam, possibly an ultrasound. If

the uterus is clear, then there’s nothing else we need to do.”

So clinical. So cold. Regina’s heart tightened in her chest. “And if

it’s not?”

Donna Tomah smiled. “Let’s just see, shall we? Lie down.”

A chill slithered down her spine. She didn’t want to lie down. She

felt exposed and vulnerable enough already. She didn’t want to put her

feet in the metal stirrups and open herself up to more disappointment.

Regina moistened her lips. “What if the uterus isn’t . . . You know.

Clear.”

“We would take steps to prevent infection.”

Steps. Misgiving contracted her stomach, sharp as a cramp. Uh-oh.

“Antibiotics?”

“Let’s get the pelvic over with before we decide on a plan of

treatment,” the doctor said.

Which made sense. It did. Regina opened her mouth to agree. Heard

herself say, “I think I’ll come back in the morning.”

Donna’s pleasant smile set. Well, she probably wasn’t happy at

being dragged from her dinner and whatever was on TV tonight just so

Regina could refuse medical attention. “We could be busy.”

“I have an appointment,” Regina reminded her. “Ten o’clock. I’ll

come then.”

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Donna stiffened. “That’s not a good idea.”

Antonia used to complain that the surest way to get Regina to do

something was to tell her not to do it. “Attitude,” her teachers said.

“Bitch,” Alain called her. Resistance tended to make her stubborn.

She was uncertain and sick and afraid, but she wasn’t giving up her

baby. Dylan’s baby. Whether their child was the fulfillment of some