Siren's Call

Nash removed the canning lid and downed half of it in one swallow. “That’s good,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten how hot it is down here. How do you stand the heat and humidity?”

“You’ll acclimate to it again. I would think you’d be used to all kind of conditions in your line of work.”

“Nothing like Southern humidity.” He took off his shirt and used it to wipe sweat from his face and eyes.

He glimpsed Lily getting an eyeful of his chest and abs. The lady was definitely interested. Nash groaned inwardly. But what did he expect? He’d been a fool to kiss her last night. Of course she thought he was interested in her. Especially since— Well, he didn’t want to think of the last two women he’d dated. Guilt rose in his throat like bile.

“What you got?” he asked as she opened containers.

“Fried chicken, pimento cheese sandwiches, pecan pie, shrimp cocktail and lobster salad.”

He picked up a chicken wing. “I’m going to gain twenty pounds this summer,” he predicted. Nash bit into the buttermilk-soaked and flour-coated goodness and sighed. “But I’ll enjoy every damn minute along the way.”

Lily laughed and ate a spoonful of lobster salad. “Live in the moment, I always say.”

Ocean-blue eyes fixated on him and Nash couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but stare into those eyes. Energy crackled between them, every bit as scalding as the noon sun.

This wouldn’t do. “Show me your drawings,” he commanded, opening her sketchpad without waiting for permission.

Lily’s hand rested on his forearm and his skin tingled at the light touch.

“Just so you know, I’m mostly self-taught. I’m still learning and hoping to find a professional tutor at some point. If I can find one that deems me worthy of his time.”

So the lady’s armor of self-confidence had a chink. “Understood.” A self-taught amateur? He braced himself for convoluted drawings of fruit still lifes, paint-by-number ocean scenes or Victorian-looking flowers and hearts.

“Let me see what you got there,” he said huskily, conscious of her fingers over his knuckles working magic on his libido.

Lily released her hand and the tingling ceased. Nash opened the sketchpad and gave a low whistle at the detailed pen-and-ink drawings of birds, sea grass, fish and trees. This was more than mere talent. It was...seeing the bayou through Lily’s eyes. Each composition was vibrant and unique as a thumbprint.

“What do you think?” Her voice was high and reedy, anxious. She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “If you don’t like them, it’s okay. Like I said, I’m—”

“I don’t like them.” He paused at a watercolor depicting swirls of light in dark liquid. “I love them.” He studied it closer—saw an outline of individual fishes swimming in a school spiraling upward, their bodies incandescent in an inky darkness, like a lamp lit undersea. At the bottom of the painting was a large chunk of coral, the top alit in a violet haze and underneath gray shadows bottomed out to black. He flipped the painting toward Lily. “What kind of fish are these?”

“Myctophids, also known as lantern fish. They’re as common under the sea as squirrels in a cove of oaks.”

“Amazing.” As much as Nash’s soul longed to traverse the world, seeing new landscapes and animals, so it now also longed to be undersea, to capture the ocean’s deep magic—an unexplored galaxy. Again, he had the oddest tingling that something about Lily was different. Too perfect. Too powerful. He looked up from the sketchpad and caught her twirling the ends of her hair—a nervous gesture she’d had when they were kids. Underneath her confident exterior was a sensitive artist. He returned his gaze to the sketchpad and examined the drawings.

In the midst of shades of gray pencil drawings, he came upon another watercolor popping with vibrancy. Striated bands of blue and green progressed from deep to lighter hues as if Lily’s perspective originated on the ocean floor, looking toward the sky as the sun’s reflection filtered down. The perspective was unusual.

“How did you capture this image?” He opened the book to the watercolor and laid it open between them. “Do you visualize the scenes in your mind or do you paint from photos?”

Lily took a long swallow of tea, canting her long neck upward, exposing the vulnerable hollow of her throat. Damn. He’d never before admired a woman’s neck, for Pete’s sake.

Her head tilted forward and she delicately patted her upper lip before speaking. “That one was inspired by a picture Jet took swimming one day. Have you done underwater shoots?”

“No. But I’d love to.” Would he be any good? His talent came from an unnatural connection to the earth and its creatures. But fish? Undersea life? He didn’t have a clue.

“I stopped by and saw your grandfather this morning,” she said, turning the conversation. “He showed me a collection of your work. Very impressive.”

Nash shrugged, but his gut warmed that his grandfather was so proud of him. “Did he give you any more sinister warnings?”

“No.” A shuttered look crossed her face and she glanced sideways, as if expecting another coyote to leap from behind a tree.

“Old man got to you, huh? Used to scare me as a kid sometimes with his tales of the supernatural.”

Lily giggled. “Every rustle I hear in the woods, I look for the Little People sneaking up on me.”

“Ah, the Kowi Anukasha,” he nodded. “They’re mischievous and like scaring humans, but they aren’t evil. Not like the Nalusa Falaya.”

Lily’s smile dropped. “The Soul Eater.”

“Our Choctaw version of the bogeyman.” Nash scooped up a couple of shrimp and popped them into his mouth. “Grandfather has plenty of tall tales.”

“Who’s to say they aren’t true?” She set down her plate and gave him another of her unnerving stares.

Nash shifted, uncomfortable with the question. He didn’t want to believe. Life was tough enough without looking for monsters in the shadows. And despite his gift, he’d never seen anything to support the old Native American legends. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. The bayou’s full of magic and mystery.” Lily leaned into him, so close her breath flamed his jaw and neck. “Can’t you feel it?” she whispered.

He felt something, all right—a fierce longing to meld into her essence. The need was even stronger than it had been last night. Nash closed his eyes, let the inevitable happen. Lily’s lips brushed his. Talk about magic. His body thrummed at the contact.

“How do I wrangle an invitation to this picnic?” a cheery voice called out.

Nash winced at Opal’s abrupt appearance. Normally, he heard others approach from great distances. It was a real testament to how Lily engrossed his senses. He squelched a renewed flush of irritation—this time because he wanted to be alone with Lily, wanted to explore her curves and secret places. He shouldn’t feel this way. He should welcome the interruption.

Opal plopped onto the blanket between them so that the three formed a triangle.

“Thought you were miles away,” he said, relieved Opal didn’t mention seeing them kiss.

“Started that way this morning, but steadily edged closer here, following a blue heron.” Her smile was toothy and catching. “And then I heard this...angelic singing.”

Lily waved a hand. No blush stained her face and her manner gave no indication of embarrassment at being caught kissing. “Sorry I interrupted everyone’s work. I come here occasionally to draw,” she told Opal.

Opal leaned his way and glanced at the open sketchpad.

“Wow. You can paint and sing and look like a goddess. It’s so not fair.” Her smile stayed intact and the words didn’t seem malicious. That’s what he liked about Opal—she was an open book and was never catty.

“Your job must be fun. Bet there’s not many women who can do what you do,” Lily said.

“There’s a few.” Opal lifted her face to the sun and raised both arms by her sides. “I love working outdoors. The more primitive, the better.”

“Can I see the pictures you took this morning?” Lily asked.

“Sure.” Opal shifted her weight toward Lily and unhooked the camera cord from her neck. She tapped a button on the digital screen, revealing a dozen close-ups of a blue-gray crane.

Lily scanned the photos. “These are beautiful.”

Opal grinned at him. “Hear that, boss? Remember that at my next performance evaluation.” She turned back to Lily. “Nash takes the superhard shots, though, catching wildlife at intimate or rare moments hardly ever witnessed by humans.”

Lily handed the container of chicken wings to Opal. “His grandfather showed me his work this morning, and I was impressed.”

Nash finished another chicken wing and polished off a few more shrimp while the two exchanged pleasantries. It allowed him time to cool off and regain his composure. If a mere kiss made him fevered, what would it be like to make love to Lily? Don’t even think about it. He scrambled to his feet.

“You can’t be going back to work already.” Lily pointed to the pie. “You haven’t had dessert yet.”

A few more minutes alone and she would have been dessert. Nash studied the slight upturn at the corners of Lily’s mouth but couldn’t decide if her remark was a deliberate sexual innuendo. “Been fun, ladies, but time for me to go hunt that clapper rail again.” He took off his bandana and swiped the sweat from his face again.

“Why don’t we take a quick swim and cool off?” Opal suggested. “The heat’s brutal.”

Lily shook her head. “I can’t swim.”

Opal gaped at her. “You practically live on an island and can’t swim?”

“I had a bad experience as a child. Went to swim before a storm and an undertow almost swept me away. Been afraid of the water ever since.”

He’d forgotten that. When they were young, Lily had gamely kept up with him on the hiking and biking but refused to ever get in the water. “Yet you paint it so much—one as if you were actually undersea,” he mused aloud.

Lily set aside her plate of lobster salad. “Our fears become our obsessions.”

“But couldn’t you go in the water up to your knees and splash yourself if we stand with you?” Opal pleaded. “It would be fun.”

“’Fraid not.”

“Later, ladies.” He pulled back on his T-shirt, slung the camera carrier around his neck and took several steps before remembering his manners. He turned around and waved. “Oh, and thanks for lunch, Lily.”

Nash sucked in a breath of hot air laced with a bracing, salty tang. Good thing Opal had come along when she had. He’d taken this assignment not only to visit Grandfather, but also to escape from women constantly chasing him and from the memory of his last two disastrous relationships.

From here on, Lily was off-limits.

* * *

Lily touched her lips and sighed as he walked away. That kiss had been pure magic.

Opal gave a little laugh. “Enjoying the view? I totally see why the ladies all go for him. He’s a hunk, all right.”

Lily gazed at her curiously, wondering if Opal had feelings for Nash. “What about you?”

“Nah, I’ve got someone in my life. And it’s never a good idea to date anyone you work with, especially your boss.”

Lily prodded for more details. “So women swoon over him?”

“Breaks hearts everywhere he goes. Women constantly fall at his feet.”

And I’m behaving like every other woman. “He have anyone serious in his life?” She put lids on some of the containers and returned them to the basket.

“Not anymore. Not since—” Opal broke off, staring out at sea.

“Not since what?”

“Not since his last girlfriend, Connie, died.” Opal dug into the lobster salad. “Mmm...de-lish.”

Lily gasped and stopped packing up food. “That’s awful. What happened?”

“Suicide. Connie was found dead one morning, an empty bottle of pills on her nightstand.” Opal downed a long swig of tea. “Sad, huh?”

Poor Nash. No wonder he’s bitter. “Tragic,” Lily quietly agreed. “Did she leave a note?”

Opal nibbled on a chicken wing and delicately wiped her mouth before answering. “None was ever found. But he’d broken up with her a couple days before.”

“How long ago did she...did this happen?”

“About a year ago. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except...” Her voice trailed off.

Lily didn’t see how the story could get any worse. “Except what?”

“I really shouldn’t say anything. It kind of slipped out, ya know?”

“C’mon. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Opal spooned up more salad and chewed, as if mulling over the answer. “Thing is,” she said at last, setting down the plate, “two years earlier, another of his girlfriends died. Rebecca.”

The knot of dread in Lily’s stomach grew. “How?” she whispered.

“They had an argument—probably over his lack of commitment—and she drove home. Hours later, apparently drunk, she got back in her car but lost control of it, ran off into a ditch and hit a tree.”

Goose bumps pricked Lily’s arms and legs and a chill set in that no blistering Southern sun could warm. I’m poison. Nash’s clipped words echoed round her brain like gunshots in a canyon. No wonder the guy was aloof. She’d be bitter, too.

“That’s—that’s horrible,” Lily said, putting her face in her hands. How the hell did someone cope with that much pain? One death was bad enough. But two? She shuddered.

“Sure.” Opal sighed. “The doctors said Rebecca died instantly. So there’s that.”

Lily didn’t want to hear any more details. It was too much to take in all at once. She wanted to be alone and deal with the knowledge of all Nash had suffered, was still suffering. Lily abruptly gathered up food containers and stuffed them in the picnic basket; even the smell of it nauseated her. “Don’t say anything else.” Lily shut the picnic basket with a snap. “Nash will tell me when he’s ready.”

“Sorry to spoil your lunch.” Opal eyed the pie. “Mind if I keep a piece for later this afternoon?”

Lily wrapped the whole thing in aluminum foil, her movements jerky with haste. She thrust it at Opal. “Take it.”

“Thanks. I’ll share it with Nash.”

They both rose unsteadily to their feet.

Opal frowned. “Look, I hope I didn’t scare you off Nash. He’s a great guy who’s had a bit of bad luck lately.”

“A bit of bad luck?” Lily snorted. “I’d say it’s more serious than that.”

Opal flushed. “Absolutely. You’re right. It’s— I like you, Lily. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

“No need for the warning. Nothing is going to happen to me,” she said curtly, wanting to end the conversation.

“Of course not.” Opal squeezed Lily’s shoulder and dropped her hand to her side. “Just thought you should know. I’d hate to see him break your heart.”

“Some would say I have no heart to break,” Lily muttered.

“Why would they say that?”

“Not important.”

Opal’s face crumbled. “You don’t trust me to keep my mouth shut. Which I can totally understand, given how I blabbed Nash’s history during lunch.”

“It’s not that.” Lily’s fingers rubbed an itchy scratch on her leg leftover from the run in the woods. She supposed this was what girlfriends did, exchanged secrets and confided in one another. Maybe Opal had done her a favor in revealing Nash’s painful past. At least now she knew the problem and could be mentally prepared when Nash brought up the news himself.

And it would be wonderful to have a real friend because Jet and Shelly were busy now with their own lives. She drew a deep breath. “Okay, you’ll probably hear this anyway if you meet people in town, but I don’t have a great reputation.”

“Why’s that?”

“I went through a bit of a wild stage years ago and no one will let me forget it. That’s a small town for you. You’re doomed to never live down your past. Although, in my defense, rumors of my promiscuity are greatly exaggerated.”

Opal patted her shoulder. “Poor Lily. Don’t worry—I won’t say anything to Nash.”

Lily shifted uncomfortably. Opal made her feel...beholden. Guilty. As if they shared something dirty. “Doesn’t matter. He’s bound to hear the talk, too.”

“Maybe not. He and his grandfather live pretty isolated. And Nash has been reclusive the past couple of years. He doesn’t get out much.” Opal winked. “So you see, probably nothing to worry about.”

Again, a prickly unease settled over Lily. She smiled uncertainly. “If you say so,” she agreed. Her family had grown up secluded from the townsfolk, making it easier to keep their shape-shifting abilities a secret.

Secrecy was a habit she’d have to let slip if she wanted a girlfriend.

Chapter 5

Sunset through the pines cast coral and mauve spears of light across land and sea. Nash had returned to the cabin on the evening ferry, bent on a mission. Now he trudged through mosquito-infested lowland, shotgun at his side. Diseased or not, the coyote was clever at eluding him. In spite of pain and fear, the will to live was strong in the animal. Nash respected that.

The wind shifted, hot air rippling across his sweaty skin. The fresh scent of pine needles had an underlying taint. Nash followed it, back on the coyote’s track. Another fifty yards ahead, the smell of sickness grew thicker and obliterated the pine odor.

Black energy seeped inward as he drew near. Most likely the unfortunate coyote had been ousted from his pack, a threat to the group’s survival. Cold fingers of loneliness fidgeted along his spine as he sensed the animal’s toxic miasma. Nash picked up a faint, rumbling groan. Not the growl of an aggressive animal, but the mewling of one suffering.

Nash emitted a calming message. Your time has come. Let’s end the pain.

An answering whine came from behind a dense clump of saw palmetto trees not a dozen yards to his right. The coyote emerged, trembling, its amber eyes dull and flat. Mottled gray fur encased an emaciated body. Telltale foam bubbled along its tapered muzzle. Rabies had rendered the animal unable to swallow its own saliva.

Nash ever so slowly raised the shotgun, not wanting to provoke the animal. I’m sorry. This will be quick, I promise you. His right index finger crooked onto the metal trigger.

The coyote leapt, snarling and baring sharp teeth, amber eyes alit in a last-shot bid to escape death. Fur, fear and fury hurled toward Nash and he pulled the trigger.

An explosive boom rang out. The reverberation from the shot was still echoing as the dead coyote’s body hit the ground with a thump. Nash closed his eyes and drank in the silence until peace washed through the woods.

It was done.

He took out the garbage bag and latex gloves he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans. To prevent spread of the rabies virus, it was necessary to bag the coyote and put it in a protected place until he could return in the morning with a shovel and bury the dead body.

Quickly, he attended to the last rites. You were brave. A fighter to the end. May you join a ghostly pack in happy hunting grounds. Satisfied with the work, he retraced his path. The air was a shade darker than when he’d first set out. At a fork on the dirt trail he hesitated. Better check on the old man. Grandfather had missed dinner and the thought of his eighty-two-year-old grandfather being unaccounted for left Nash uneasy. Instead of continuing home, Nash set off for the marsh. Sam often fished all day out there.

Sure enough, he found his grandfather sitting in a chair, fishing pole in hand. The tip of his cigar glowed in the gathering twilight. Nash walked up behind him.

Without turning around, Sam spoke. “Heard the shot. You get that coyote?”

“I did.” Nash settled on the ground close by after making sure he was clear of fire-ant mounds. Their sting was like being poked by flaming hypodermic needles. “Sorry I haven’t been to see you in a couple days.”

“You’re busy. Besides, I went years without seeing you. Two days is nothing.”

Guilt made him defensive. “You were always welcome to visit me. Why do you stay here all the time? There’s a big, wide world outside this backwoods.”

Sam stared ahead at the black water. “True. But there’s also a whole world here you’re missing.”

“Hardly. I’ve hiked every inch of this area over the years.”

“Ah, but you haven’t swam all over it.”

Nash gave him a sideways glance. “And if I did, what would it matter? I’ve swam in all the seven seas.”

The tip of Sam’s cigar glowed brighter as he took a draw.

“Should you really be smoking with your heart trouble?”

“I’m not forsaking my little pleasures. I’ve lived over eight decades, you know.”

“Yeah, but if you want to make another decade, you need to give up those things.” He pointed to the cigar with a jab of his finger.

Sam tipped his head back and exhaled a smoke ring within a smoke ring.

“When do you go back for another doctor’s visit? I want to go with you.” Guilt lashed him; months ago when Sam had undergone a triple bypass operation, Nash had been on an African safari assignment. His grandfather had recouped alone until he’d finagled an assignment nearby. Nash had sent a paid home health care assistant, but his grandfather had dismissed her before two weeks were up, claiming he could take care of himself.

“At least think about giving up frying everything in bacon grease,” Nash urged.

Sam didn’t respond and Nash frowned at the grey tinge that underlaid Sam’s olive skin. The fishing pole trembled slightly in his grandfather’s unsteady hand.

A rush of nostalgia overcame Nash. As a child, his grandfather’s cabin had been a haven of peace from his parents’ tumultuous marriage. He’d missed the summer visits after Mom had whisked him away to her home state of Massachusetts. His grandfather could have visited them, but he refused to leave the bayou. Nash doubted he’d ever been north of the Mason-Dixon line his entire life.

The pole jerked and Sam smiled, face crinkling. He detached a good-sized brim and placed it in a rolling ice chest with several others. “Fried fish dinner tonight.”

Nash shook his head. He’d suggest baking the fish but knew his grandfather wouldn’t go for the healthier option. “Ready to get home and eat? It’s getting dark.”

“I can see well enough, plus I have my flashlight.”

A knowing look passed between them. They could each sense their way in darkness. His grandfather had some of the same supernatural senses that he did, although not as strong. By agreement, they seldom spoke of it.

Sam closed the lid of the small cooler. “Let’s sit a spell afore we go. Have I ever told you the story—”

Nash almost groaned. Not another story.

“—of the Okwa Nahollo?”

“No,” he said, surprised. He thought he’d heard every Choctaw tale a thousand times, but this was new. “Does that translate to ‘pale water people’?”

“White people of the water,” Sam corrected. “Extremely white.”

An image of Lily’s soft-hued face flashed through him. He hated admitting it, but he’d missed her the past two days he’d stayed on the island.

“With skin the color of trout because they lived undersea,” his grandfather continued.

Talk about a tall fish tale. Nash refrained from grinning. “Like mermaids?”

Sam shook his head. “No. They aren’t half fish and half human. They have human form except their legs are almost twice as long as ours. Their fingers and toes are webbed and their eyes glow like some deep-sea fishes do.”

“Of course, so they can see better in dark water.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, as if suspicious Nash was amused. “Exactly.”

Nash wrapped his arms around his bent knees and stared out over the marsh. “Go on.”

“Whenever you find patches of light-colored water in the bayou, that is where they live. If you swim near them or fish near them, they’ll grab your ankles and pull you under.”

The theme from Jaws played in his mind. “So don’t worry about sharks. People should fear capture by mermaids.” Death by mermaid.