Or they had been immortal.
They were dying now. His sister, dead. His people, dying while the sea lord dallied on shore.
Morgan‟s hand clenched on the cold stone pillar. A silent howl tore through his chest, strong as anger, bleak as the winter
wind through caves of ice. Yet his face remained calm, his gaze fixed on the font. He had not let himself feel anything, even
despair, in a very long time.
His gaze flickered over the family in the front pew; narrowed in recognition on the selkie Margred, standing beside her
human mate, a big man with a strong jaw and a short haircut. Margred had chosen to live as a human. Age as a human. Die as
a human.
Yet she appeared content and even more beautiful than Morgan remembered, secure within the circle of her mate‟s arm,
her belly swollen with his whelp.
Morgan wondered if their child would be born human or shifter. There was simply no way of knowing until it reached the
age of puberty, the time of Change.
“ Hope for the future, ” Conn called these half-blood offspring.
Perhaps. Morgan shifted his weight, uncomfortable in his own skin, as restive in his own body as a cat tied in a sack, as a
shark confined to a tank.
At the dawn of creation, the children of the sea had lived in balance with their fellow elementals, the children of earth, air,
and fire. In recent centuries, however, the seas had sickened and the merfolk had declined. As their numbers and their power
dwindled, every birth, every loss, assumed deeper significance. When three of their youngest had disappeared last year, even
Morgan had winced at the loss.
Perhaps Conn was right. Maybe a closer alliance with humankind would ensure their survival.
His lips tightened as the infant at the front of the church was signed with water and the cross.
And perhaps it would destroy them.
He turned and stalked from the church.
At least outside he could breathe. The shadowed porch was cool and dim. He staggered like a sailor who had been too long
at sea. The smell of grass and decay rose from the church yard, carried on a fresh breeze from the sea. To steady himself, he
focused on the things of earth, leaning headstones, blowing grass, a tree.
A pair of children, an older boy and a little girl, turned off the main street, ambling along the crumbling asphalt at the side
of the road. Something about the boy, the shape of his head or the set of his shoulders, snagged Morgan‟s attention. He
narrowed his gaze.
Really, the boy seemed almost familiar, tall and wiry, a mop of hair above a lean, watchful face. Morgan had not known
many children. Only the whelps on Sanctuary. Perhaps boys, like puppies, were all the same. This one had yet to fill out, to
grow into his hands or his wrists, his feet or his nose. But he looked like . . .
Morgan‟s pulse quickened.
Almost exactly like . . .
“ Iestyn? ” Morgan whispered.
But as soon as the name escaped his lips, he damned himself for a fool. This was no missing selkie youth. This boy was
bony where Iestyn was lean, black-haired while Iestyn was fair.
And human, the most insurmountable difference of all.
Morgan settled back into the shadows of the porch, ignoring the drumming of his pulse, the tug of instinct or recognition.
Obviously, the sea crossing had addled his brain.
Two more boys in faded flannel and jeans turned the corner. They called up the hill, loud as crows. Morgan was too far
away to distinguish the words, but the first boy stiffened.
“Faggot.” This time Morgan heard the taunt clearly.
The black-haired boy bent and whispered to the girl, giving her a little push. She cast a quick look over her shoulder and
ran, her pink sandals slapping the gravel.
Straightening, the boy turned to face his tormentors.
No coward, then, Morgan thought with approval.
The girl pelted past the church, her small face pink with exertion and excitement. Morgan barely noticed her as he assessed
the boy‟s chances. Two against one. Not good.