The Wild Ways (31 page)
“Practice, with the band. It’s a festival stage this weekend in Louisburg.” She flicked sesame seeds back toward him. Not like she could do anything for the Selkies, not without knowing where the skins were. “We need to scoop some points.”
“Playing in the Fort? I read the pamphlet when you were in the can,” he added nodding toward the tourist brochures tucked in between the stainless steel napkin holder and the wall.
“Just outside the Fort by the visitor’s center, I think. But we can go inside the Fort if you want.”
He shrugged, suddenly too teenage to admit he wanted. “Do I need to be there tonight?”
“Depends, what are you likely to do instead?”
“Fly.” He shrugged again. “Scout out the lay of the land, you know, in case I need to get somewhere quick because you have . . .” Teeth more Dragon than Human bit a french fry in half with cheerful overemphasis. “. . . an enemy.”
“Who can’t do anything to me, you know that right?”
“Rules have changed. You’ve agreed to be a Hero.”
Yeah right. A Hero. So far her only contribution had been all about locking the barn door after the skins were stolen. But since Jack seemed to be waiting for a response, she growled, “Shut up.”
“And I may eat a deer.”
It took Charlie a moment to rewind that back to context. “Just don’t fall asleep in a cave someplace. That’d be a little hard to explain to the band.”
Jack snorted. “Not for you.”
“You want dessert?”The diner’s single waitress frowned at the dissipating smoke as she tapped her order pad with what looked like a bowling alley pencil.
“Do you have pie?” Jack’s grin was all Human. Well, all Gale, Charlie amended and the waitress couldn’t help but respond.
Her gaze softened and the tension in her shoulders relaxed as she turned to face him. “We’ve got the best pie in Cape Breton, hon. Blueberry, raspberry, peach, lemon meringue, and coconut cream.”
“Uncharmed?”
Charlie kicked him under the table.
“I mean, yes, please!”
His enthusiasm chased her confusion away. “Well, which do you want?”
Charlie held up two fingers and Jack sighed with such force the blast of warm air curled the edges of the paper placemats. “Blueberry and coconut cream.”
“They won’t be as good as what you get at home,” Charlie warned him when they were alone again.
“Yeah, but pie. Uncharmed pie!”
He had a point.
Paul had no idea why he was sitting tucked out of the wind with his back against a jumbled pile of rock, staring out at the barely visible waves of the North Atlantic slapping against the shore. His day after the press conference had been like a thousand others. He’d been on the phone most of the 398-kilometer drive back to Sydney, booking appointments, touching base with Captain Bonner who commanded the leased barge already loaded with the pylons for the drilling platform, and speaking to three people in the ministry of natural resources office although not to the actual minister. He’d arrived at the office at 4:35 PM then had gotten immediately back into his car and driven Ms. Carlson to the Sydney airport so she could fly to Halifax and attend a dinner for the Nova Scotia Professional Women’s Association along with the four female members of the provincial cabinet and seven Members of the House of Assembly.
The Minister of Natural Resources might issue the permits, but he was as susceptible to peer pressure as anyone.
They did the debrief about the press conference on the road.
“Were they convincing?”
“Stunning. I mean, yes. Convincing. Very convincing.
”
”
After seeing her off, he’d returned to the office and analyzed the minister’s schedule for any leverage they could exert, then gone over the simplified seismic surveys for the Hay Island well, making sure the PR department had covered all the bases. He’d dealt with a list of problems left on his desk in Ms. Carlson’s nearly illegible scrawl about her leased accommodations, brought her appointment with the dermatologist ahead two days because of a television interview, checked that her pale pink linen suit was back from the dry cleaners then, around 9:05, he’d cleared his desk, turned out the lights, and been, as usual, the last man out of the building.
He’d picked up some fast food on the way back to his hotel.
Then he’d driven past his hotel.
He hadn’t intended to head for the coast, but somehow, forty minutes later as the long summer twilight had started to deepen into actual darkness, he’d found himself testing his car’s suspension on a set of ruts leading east off 255 toward the ocean. He’d driven until he’d run out of even the semblance of a road, then he’d walked, then he’d sat, and watched the last of the light disappear and the water turn from gray to black.
He didn’t know why he was here.
“The sea gets in your blood,”
his father had told him and had listened patiently to a ten year old’s explanation of how blood was, evolutionarily speaking, not much different than the seawater that had surrounded the original, single-celled life destined to eventually climb up out of the oceans. It wasn’t poetry, but science.
his father had told him and had listened patiently to a ten year old’s explanation of how blood was, evolutionarily speaking, not much different than the seawater that had surrounded the original, single-celled life destined to eventually climb up out of the oceans. It wasn’t poetry, but science.
It seemed science had his heart pounding in time to the steady rhythm of the waves against the shore. The tide had turned and was on its way back in, but a lot of the rocky beach remained exposed. There wasn’t much of a moon—more than a crescent but not quite half. Paul didn’t know what to call it, but the sky was clear and the moon seemed to be shedding light out of proportion to its size. Each wave had been edged with silver. The rocks glistened. He could see the gleam of shells polished white . . .
Like bone.
Where the hell had
that
come from? Like bone?
that
come from? Like bone?
“Men who die at sea,”
his father had told him,
“die alone.”
his father had told him,
“die alone.”
Who said that kind of shit to a kid? Really? And he wasn’t
alone;
he was by himself. Not the same thing. Even if he’d had time to meet women, he didn’t have time for a relationship. He didn’t have time to wake up next to someone, to fight over the last bagel, to unlock the door again so he could kiss them good-bye. He didn’t have time to explain the difference between offside and icing to a warm body curled up beside him on the couch. He didn’t have time to forget anniversaries, remember birthdays, and share ownership of a small brown dog with a curly tail.
alone;
he was by himself. Not the same thing. Even if he’d had time to meet women, he didn’t have time for a relationship. He didn’t have time to wake up next to someone, to fight over the last bagel, to unlock the door again so he could kiss them good-bye. He didn’t have time to explain the difference between offside and icing to a warm body curled up beside him on the couch. He didn’t have time to forget anniversaries, remember birthdays, and share ownership of a small brown dog with a curly tail.
But he wasted a moment in
want
.
want
.
This is ridiculous.
He shrugged back into his suit jacket and paused, a line of cold stroking down his spine, as he saw a dark oval out in the water. Grown men with two degrees and workplace responsibilities didn’t spend their time thinking of bones and bodies and dying alone. Then the oval became a head. A seal head framed by a silver vee as it moved closer to the shore.
He shrugged back into his suit jacket and paused, a line of cold stroking down his spine, as he saw a dark oval out in the water. Grown men with two degrees and workplace responsibilities didn’t spend their time thinking of bones and bodies and dying alone. Then the oval became a head. A seal head framed by a silver vee as it moved closer to the shore.
Four seal pelts tucked away in a mine.
Just stay still. It won’t even know you’re here. The odds of it coming up on shore are . . .
It reached the shallows, reared back, and stood, the pelt sliding down over moonlight-gilded skin, flapping for a moment in a grotesque semblance of life, then caught up and becoming . . .
. . . a scarf knotted around slender hips.
Long dark hair flowed across the curve of shoulders, the bell of breasts, dusky nipples exposed, then covered, then exposed again. The eyes were seal’s eyes, too large and too dark. The dance was too graceful for land; flesh needed the support that water offered to move so freely.
Paul didn’t remember standing.
Or clambering down to the water’s edge.
He remember stumbling across the wet rock but only because he fell and drove a sharp edge of storm-split stone into his knee.
The dancer ignored him so obviously it was clear she considered herself alone on this stretch of beach and yet, she danced away every time he tried to move closer.
Finally, as the beach grew smaller and blood ran down his leg to mix with the seawater destroying his shoes, she let him catch up. He reached out and, as she spun, managed to hook one finger behind the scarf around her hips.
The slightest pressure tugged it free and it slapped into his injured leg, wet and heavy and smelling of fish, empty eye sockets starting up at him.
Five pelts.
She stopped dancing and turned.
“Eineen?”
Her smile was as dangerous as deep water and his reaction as unstoppable as the tide.
Careful to keep from crossing the moon and giving himself away, Jack glided away from the drama being played out on the shore below. He’d never paid much attention to the seal-folk back home; they were tasty if caught but had nothing in common with a life of air and fire. They sure were a presence here, though. Every group of seals he’d passed had one or two or half a dozen bright spots of
other
visible to his sight and most of the seals had at least a touch of shine. No surprise. According to his Uncle Adam, things that tasted good had a strong urge to reproduce and an UnderRealm bull would be dominant in any MidRealm herd.
other
visible to his sight and most of the seals had at least a touch of shine. No surprise. According to his Uncle Adam, things that tasted good had a strong urge to reproduce and an UnderRealm bull would be dominant in any MidRealm herd.
Did they sense him, he wondered? Did they feel him flying overhead and dive for deep water? Or did they realize he was different and they were safe?
He was a Gale.
With wings and scales.Wings and scales, teeth and tail. Sorcery that never failed.
Lips pursed, he blew out short blasts of flame instead of the mouth beats—dragon mouths not so much made for rap—and wondered if any of the bands in Charlie’s festival ever played anything good.
Gale. Scales. Never failed. In your face; I got a family place!
With wings and scales.Wings and scales, teeth and tail. Sorcery that never failed.
Lips pursed, he blew out short blasts of flame instead of the mouth beats—dragon mouths not so much made for rap—and wondered if any of the bands in Charlie’s festival ever played anything good.
Gale. Scales. Never failed. In your face; I got a family place!
Wheeling inland toward the sound of a large body moving through the underbrush, he used his shadow to herd the deer into a clearing large enough for him to strike. He used to wonder why the family got totally bent out of shape about Pixies—and no one, not even other Pixies cared about Pixies—but he could chow down on does and fawns and stags and no one blinked an eye. Not even David.
He used to wonder.
He didn’t anymore.
When he finally landed behind the church, he could hear Charlie’s band still playing in the basement. Charlie probably wouldn’t have carried through on her threat to play only bagpipe music in the car if he was late but only a total moron would risk it. Who listened to music that sounded like Naiads being tortured?
Actually, at least half the Courts back home would probably love it.
He remade his clothes from grass clippings and fallen leaves—if he forgot to undress, they burned off when he changed—and pulled them on leaning against Charlie’s car. Head half through the neck of the Green Lantern T-shirt, he froze. Somewhere close, a phone was ringing. It wasn’t loud, but that wasn’t because of distance it was because it was . . .
. . . coming from inside the car. Charlie’s phone, then, but just ringing, not playing a signature song.
Someday he’d make her change the ringtone she’d put on for him. Puff was a stupid name for a dragon.
But a plain ring, that meant it was someone Charlie’d never given a song to. Or maybe, they weren’t calling for Charlie. Maybe they were calling for him. The family knew where he was and he didn’t even have a lame phone that did only voice and texting—although Charlie was probably right about Auntie Jane’s ulterior motives—and he hadn’t talked to Allie since they’d left Calgary. The ring was so faint only someone who could hear a mouse fart under their flight path would be able to hear it.
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