selkie and finfolk—to the depths of the sea.
Over the centuries, the children of fire grew strong, while the children of the sea declined in numbers and in magic. Now
the very survival of the merfolk hangs in the balance. A closer alliance with humankind might save the children of the sea. Or
destroy them.
Yet all acknowledge that some contact is inevitable between the elementals and mortal men and women. From such
encounters, souls are redeemed and lost, wars are waged, great art is created, empires are raised.
Of such meetings, legends—and children—are born . . .
1
COPENHAGEN, SIXTEEN YEARS AGO
THE TRIP OF A LIFETIME, THE TOUR BROCHURE had promised. Culture, nightlife, adventure, and romance in
Europe’s most swinging capital.
Twenty-two-year-old Elizabeth Ramsey tightened her grip on her purse strap. Getting accosted outside a dance club in
Copenhagen might qualify as adventure.
But romance ?
She looked at the men blocking her way back inside the club. Three of them—she counted—with pockmarked skin, bad
hair, and crappy attitudes.
Not a chance.
She bit her lip, betrayed by the travel company‟s PR and her own expectations. Her cheeks were hot. Her head still
pounded from the techno beat vibrating down the grimy steps.
The skinny guy in the middle called an invitation, thrusting his hips forward suggestively. The red neon sign over the
club‟s entrance illuminated the line of his underwear and a slice of hairy stomach.
Oh, no.
She glanced again at the club door, hoping for rescue. A couple of women maybe, or another American. If Allyson had
only stuck by their buddy arrangement . . . But her roommate had ditched her earlier that evening for a Swedish graduate
student, Gunnar or Gondor or whatever his name was. Sooner or later, Liz would have to make her way back to their hotel
alone.
She looked around for a cab. Or a cop. Copenhagen was safe, everyone said, even at three in the morning. But she didn‟t
speak the language. She wasn‟t in control of the situation. She hated that.
Plus it would totally suck if the first time ever she flouted her parents‟ wishes, they turned out to be right after all.
Liz shifted her weight in her platform sandals. Better to walk away, she reasoned, than get into a wrestling match with the
Grunge Triplets. She was only a block or two from the square. Plenty of taxis there.
She anchored her tiny purse under her arm and picked her way along the cracked, uneven sidewalk, scanning for a cab.
Mistake. She realized it almost at once. Because instead of abandoning her for more willing game inside, the three men
followed. Skin prickled on her upper arms, exposed by her skimpy halter top. She needed a jacket.
She needed to get the hell away.
She heard them behind her, scuffling feet and whistles that required no translation. Her breathing hitched. She quickened
her step, her gaze darting in search of a lit window, an open door, the lights and bustle of Nørrebrogade.
Nothing. Just the flat, black waters of a canal and a row of small, shuttered shops, their bright facades faded to gray by the
night.
Nerves scraped under her skin. Had she turned the wrong way? Should she turn back? But they were right behind her,
heavy footsteps, coming closer, coming faster, almost—
Her neck wrenched. Her head jerked back.
Ow ow ow.
Pain and panic flared. Tears stung her eyes. The guy following her had grabbed her hair, yanking her to a halt.
She whirled in self-defense, striking out, striking back. Her clenched fist connected with something hard and moist. Her
knuckles burned.