Tempest

Love can change a soul. But can it save one life?

Colm Weathercliff is a simple fisherman with an uncanny—some might say preternatural—knack for his trade. He thought leaving his small village to take his father's ashes to the capital city of Caithmor for a proper burial would be the grandest adventure of his life.

At first, all his hopes seem to be fulfilled. He finds a home where he's accepted without question, the freedom to use his talent to its fullest effect, and love with Nichol, a man with a longing for the sea as powerful as Colm's.

But Caithmor holds as many dangers as it does attractions. Colm's greatest secret turns out to be a dark revelation that gets him and his family shunned—and changes everything he thought he knew about himself.

The truth—about his parentage, his gift, even his physical form—could poison his chance for love. And doom both him and Nichol to a gruesome, inescapable fate.

Warning: Contains graphic violence, explicit sex, and scenes of torture that may not be for the faint of heart. These mermen bear no resemblance to those you might have seen in a certain animated film.

Tempest

Cari Z

Dedication

Sometimes the best things occur when you twist your expectations just a bit, which is what happened for me with this story. Immense thanks to my betas for proofing, to my editor for improving, and especially to my readers. I hope you enjoy this new adventure.

Chapter One

Colm crouched on the edge of the half-sunken pier and submerged his ash-covered fingers in the shallows of the loch. He twitched them idly, watching the soot start to cloud the water, and fought the urge to jerk them back out. It seemed a sacrilege to wash away any part of what had once been his father, but Colm figured that if Ger's soul was to rest happily anywhere in Anneslea, it was here.

He shut his eyes and let his spine soften, feeling the ache of a full night and day spent tending the forge in every muscle. It was tradition that the oldest son assist the smith in feeding the fire and speaking the prayers while the body of the family patriarch returned to its elements. For all that he'd barely had to move, the work had seemed far heavier than any Colm had ever known before. That much time in the firebrick cavern had ensured the body was consumed, but rather than wait for the priest to collect and bless the ashes, Colm fled once his duty was done.

He'd intended just to come out to resecure the sails on the boat. But the lure of fresh air after the heat of the forge and the staleness that lingered in the house following his father's death was too great to resist. Colm had left black smudges on the damp sailcloth as he tightened the lines, and seeing them there felt right. He'd meant to clean his hands and return home after that, but instead he got comfortable and let his fingers drift in the glacial cold of the water. He read the signs as they filtered up from the depths, resolutely avoiding any thought of home.

A needlefoot crab pushed a small school of rock trout out of the nearest underwater outcropping. Colm felt disgruntled fin flicks as the trout relocated farther away from the shore. They preferred to stay where the rocks gave them some cover from the slipperscales that nipped at their fronds, and where the occasional marauding pike was too large to follow them. The crab paced back and forth on its pointy feet in victory, waving its claws over its head. Colm sensed every step of the dance, recognizing the tiny, familiar vibrations against his fingertips.

The mist in the air changed to rain, at first falling lightly enough that Colm could ignore it. Soon, though, it became a deluge, slipping past his hood to slide down his back in crawling rivulets. It disrupted the signals from the fish too, leaving Colm unable to feel anything but the pounding of the rain on the water. Still, he resisted returning to the house. The priest had undoubtedly brought the ashes to Desandre by now, and Honored Gherick was no friend of Colm's. Better to be damp and muffled outside than uncomfortably on the spot inside.

Piety wasn't a strength of Colm's. He was a fisherman in a town full of farmers, with no ingrained connection to the rhythm of the land or the rituals of its worship. He'd been encouraged in his different interests by his father, who hadn't cared much for religion himself. Services in Anneslea's little church left Colm feeling restless, the magic of the Four's blessing so sharp in the air that it made his eyes water and his nose run. Ger had tended to skip all but the most important village festivals, and Colm had followed gratefully in his footsteps. There were too many expectations, too much conversation during and after, too many women casting long, interested looks at him that left Colm uncomfortable.

His avoidance hadn't earned him Honored Gherick's approval, though the priest hadn't tried to gainsay Ger's direction of his own family while he was alive. Now that he was gone, though…what would Colm do? He felt directionless, as adrift as a boat with a broken rudder and tattered sails.

“Colm!”

He stiffened with surprise, swiveled and saw his little brother stamp his foot on the ground at the end of the pier. Kels hated the damp with a passion, evading bath time with a skill that drove Desandre to the verge of despair. Colm was surprised he'd agreed to go out in the rain. “Mama says come home!” Kels continued, his lips set in a disgruntled pout. Colm stood up and made his way along the slick wooden pilings, finally hopping down next to his brother.

“Don't splash me!” Kels squealed, jumping back. “I don't wanna be wet!”

“Shall I carry you back, then?” Colm asked.

Kels considered the offer, but finally shook his head. “No, let's just go.” He turned and led the way back into town, and Colm followed silently. Smoke drifted up from the chimneys of houses they passed, and here and there through the windows, Colm caught the glance of someone inside staring out at them, naturally curious about the pair now that their father was dead.

Colm quickly turned his face up to the rain, letting it wash across his pale eyes and mingle with the tears that welled up whenever he thought of his father. Ger had been ill for months, and his death wasn't exactly a surprise, but Colm still hadn't been ready for it. He didn't know how anyone could be ready for that kind of thing. The titan of his childhood was gone, and now he felt lost inside of his own home. Like an unnecessary complication for everyone, even himself.

They walked briskly along the well-churned paths and made it back to the house before dusk completely obscured the way. Kels burst through the front door, tracking mud into the hearth room and prompting a yell from their sister Baylee. Colm followed at a more controlled pace, pulling off his tall, weatherproof boots and leaving them in the corner. Baylee already had her hands on Kels and was leading him back to the room he and Colm shared to strip him of his wet clothes. Merdith, his eldest sister, emerged from the kitchen a moment later, her expression stern.

“You finished in the forge hours ago. Where have you been for so long?” she demanded in a low voice. “You missed Honored Gherick's visit.”

“I went to make sure the boat was properly secure.”

“You should have made sure of that when you last finished with it,” Merdith scolded. Colm could have told her about the effects of wind and rain on even the sturdiest of lashings, but instead chose to remove his cloak and hang it on one of the hooks above the fireplace, where it would dry out. Merdith sighed. “And now you're going and dripping water all over Mama's nice clean floor. You behave exactly like Kels sometimes.”

“Where is Desandre?” Colm asked, ignoring his sister's complaints.

Merdith crossed her arms. “In the kitchen. Honored Gherick brought Papa's ashes back when he came, which you would've known if—Colm!” But Colm wasn't listening anymore, brushing past her and ducking under the lintel to enter the kitchen. Desandre stood up when he entered and he went straight to her, folding her into his arms.

“Mama, he will make you wet!” Merdith complained.

“I can survive a little wet,” Desandre said, her voice muffled against Colm's woolen jumper. “Go and check on the others, Merdith.”

Merdith huffed but left the two of them alone. Colm fought against the burning in his eyes as he patted his stepmother's back gently. After a moment, she leaned away, enough so that she could meet Colm's gaze. He saw the blessing of the Four the priest had laid on her still lingering in her face, red spots like tiny burns on her forehead, cheeks and chin.

“So,” Desandre said, freeing one hand to wipe a few errant tears away. She guided Colm over to sit with her at the table. “You missed Honored Gherick's visit.”

“Yes,” Colm said, wondering if she would scold him as well. Desandre just sighed, though.

“He brought your father's remains back from the smithy.” Her small, strong hand played over the knot that held the bag closed. “He also informed me that our village is no proper resting place for Ger. We're not to be allowed to bury him here.”

“What?” Colm was genuinely shocked. Of all the potential abuse he'd anticipated as a result of Gherick's visit, of all the possibilities that had given Colm apprehension, this one hadn't even crossed his mind. “How can he make such a ridiculous decision? Anneslea is Father's home. He lived half of his life here!”

“Honored Gherick suggested that your father would be more at peace were he buried on the coast, where he came from. Where you both came from,” Desandre told him. “And Colm…I'm minded to listen to him, in this.”

“But
why
?”

Desandre leaned in and lowered her voice. “Think, Colm. Think of what life here will be like now for us. I must rely on the goodwill of the village to help me work our fields, and on Merdith and her husband's spare time.”

“I can keep fishing, I'll fish more,” Colm argued. “I'll bring in more money and goods.”

“No, darling.
Think
. Your father is gone, and I cannot protect you
from the strictures of this life, not like Ger did.” She twisted her hands together for a moment, staring at her braided fingers as if trying to read answers in them. Finally, she spoke again, hesitantly. “You're of an age to marry now. You'll be expected to find a wife soon. To build your own home, to attend services and have children and work the earth.” Desandre shook her head.

“But the earth isn't where your heart lies, Colm. It never has been. You love the water like your father did, and
this
may be your only chance to return to it. This is your opportunity to live the life you want to, instead of the life you would be resigned to.”

Her eyes spoke volumes left unsaid, and Colm flushed with surprise when he realized how much his stepmother
knew
. She knew why he avoided services, so full of talk of dutifulness and fertility. She knew that the thought of courting a girl here in town left him feeling hollow and uninterested. She knew, and she didn't chastise him. She warned him instead, and offered escape.

“Where would I go?” Colm asked slowly.

“I have family in Caithmor,” Desandre said, “an aunt. She runs an inn on the waterfront. I can write you a letter for her, and I'm sure she'll take you in. She knows our rituals, our customs. She'll see that your father gets the rites he needs.”

“All the way to the capital?” Colm had never been farther from Anneslea than the foothills of the White Spires range, at least not in his conscious memory. “It will take a month to get there, at least.”

“You can ride along with a caravan heading south after you make it down to Isealea on foot,” she encouraged him. “I have a bit of money saved. It would have gone to paying for your father's rites and funeral, but now our only expense is the smith.” Desandre didn't hide the bitterness in her voice. “And you are so clever with your hands, Colm, and so good with your trade. You'll surely find a new berth along the coast, somewhere that will welcome you and allow you to make a home there. Somewhere you can be happy.”

Part of Colm wanted to fight this plan, to stay and cling to what he knew. He may have been born on the coast, but Anneslea was where he grew up. He knew nothing else, and could hardly imagine a city as grand and far-flung as Caithmor, capital of the Muiri Empire, home to generations of conquering kings. What could he, a simple fisherman, make of life in such an inconceivable place?

The rest of Colm, though, the practical, adult side of him, knew that Desandre was right. If he stayed here, he would be married before the first snows fell. It would be expected, especially now that his father had passed. He would have to settle down, to become something that made his innards cringe. If he stayed, he would have to change his very nature.

“I'll go,” he said to Desandre, and the relief that filled her eyes made him feel a little better. “You're right, leaving is the best way. And I'll take care of Father.”

“Thank you, darling.” Desandre drew him close and kissed his cheek, then sniffed and wiped away the tears that Colm couldn't quite keep from falling. “Oh, look at us,” she chuckled. “Laid so low for his sake. Your father would be disgusted.”

“‘Crying is a waste of time and energy,'” Colm said, mimicking Ger's gruff voice and broad downland accent. “‘Is't broken? Are ye bleedin'? Then why're ye so upset, eh?'”

“‘I've the solution for yer pain,'” Desandre added, a twinkle in her eyes. “‘Show me where it hurts, and I'll cut it off.'”

Colm laughed. “He was miserable at comfort. That's why I always went to you with my bumps and bruises.”

“Oh, you were an easy child,” Desandre demurred, leaning back and wrapping her hands around a tepid mug of mulled wine. “Sweet and soft as a petal. You did bruise so easily, though.” She stared down at Colm's long, pale fingers. “Not so much anymore.”

“I had to toughen up at some point.”

“We all do,” Desandre agreed sadly. “Colm…you know that I love you like my own, don't you? I would never ask you to leave if I didn't think it was the best thing for you. You're the child of my heart, and your father and I…we've only ever wanted what was best for all our children.”

“I know,” Colm assured her. “I've never doubted that.” They stared at each other for a long moment in the dim light of the fire, hearts full of the things they'd said and the things left unspoken.

Once she'd recovered her equilibrium, Desandre relocated to the hearth room and called the rest of the family to them. Two daughters looked at her expectantly, while Kels simply climbed into his mother's lap and drowsed against her chest. Colm sat in what had been his father's chair, conscious of how wrong it felt to do so, and let his stepmother do the talking.

“Honored Gherick feels that your father will rest easier in the lands of his birth,” Desandre told her children briskly. “Colm is taking his ashes to Caithmor, so that he might be buried at sea.”

“Colm is going to Caithmor?” Baylee burst out, looking frantically from mother to brother. “But the journey will take months—you'll miss the harvest festival!”

“I may decide to stay awhile,” Colm said, and now Merdith was beaming. “There are opportunities in Caithmor that I want to explore.”

Baylee glared and set her jaw pugnaciously. “There are plenty of opportunities for you
here
. I don't see why Father can't be buried in Anneslea, so you don't have to go.”