Descendant

And then a geyser erupted at the bow.

Fennrys was flung forward and cracked his head against the rigid bench seat, splitting the skin above his eyebrow. Blood poured from the wound, and his face went slack as he lost consciousness. Mason caught a fleeting glimpse of a seaweed-draped nymph riding on the back of an enormous, fish-tailed, snow-white bull in the instant before she lost her footing on the slick, wet floor of the boat. The oar flew from her hand and disappeared over the side into the black water. And then Mason followed it, toppling over the side of the boat to vanish beneath the waves with barely a cry for help.

For some strange reason, her last thought as she sank into darkness was of Cal—of his smile . . . and his laughter. And his sea-green eyes.

XVIII

The sound of waves washing the shore, lulling him with a constant, steady rhythm—like the beating of a giant heart—gave way to the insistent beeping of a heart monitor. He listened to it for a very long time before he realized that it was beeping in time with his heartbeat. There was cool, dry air on his face where before there had been the chill caress of water. Through closed eyes he could sense light where only moments before—or so it had seemed—there had been deep, profound darkness. He heard the sounds of gasping and realized it was his own parched throat that had made the noise. His lungs were uncomfortably dry. Arid. He was drowning in the way a fish drowns, and he felt his hands reaching, grasping at the nothingness in front of his face as if he could swim back into the watery embrace where he had felt so at home. So at peace . . .

“Easy . . .”

Calum Aristarchos felt a hand on his arm.

“Easy, son.”

Strong, gentle fingers circled his wrist. Cal tried to open his eyes, but it was as if all the moisture had been sucked out of them. His eyelids felt stuck together and it was hard, painful to try to pry them open. When he finally managed the feat, everything was blurry and wavering. It seemed to take a long time for his vision to clear enough for him to be able to tell that he was lying in a bed in a room with greenish-white walls. Pale curtains billowed slightly in the breeze that came through a window, and stiff, starched sheets rubbed his skin like sandpaper as he moved weakly. Looking up, Cal saw a bag with a clear liquid hanging from a hook beside his bed. It flowed through a tube and into a needle stuck in the back of his hand.

Cal swallowed painfully. He was so thirsty.

Remembering the voice that had spoken to him, Cal turned his head away from the IV and saw that on the other side of his bed, there was a man. A stranger. At first Cal thought he must have been sitting on a very low stool, but then he caught the gleam of chrome-rimmed wheels and saw that the man was, in fact, in a wheelchair. There was a plaid blanket tucked tightly around his legs and feet.

Cal shifted his gaze to the man’s face and felt a strange sense that he’d seen him somewhere before. The stranger’s face, above a neatly trimmed beard, was deeply tanned and his hair, pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, was thick and wavy, a shade of rich chestnut brown shot through with highlights. His eyes were green. Sea green.

The same color as Cal’s eyes.

“How are you feeling?” the man asked, his voice a pleasing baritone.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital.” The man shrugged one heavily muscled shoulder. “It’s actually a specialty care facility on Roosevelt Island. They don’t usually take in emergency patients, but seeing as how you washed up half-dead and mostly drowned pretty much right on their doorstep, they didn’t really have much choice but to give you a bed. When I got here, I convinced them not to transfer you to a facility in Manhattan.”

“And how did you do that?” Cal asked warily.

“Money talks.” The man grinned. His teeth were almost blindingly white in his tanned face. “You know that.”

Of course he knew that. Cal’s family was one of the wealthiest in New York. “So you know who I am, then,” he said.

The man nodded.

Cal gritted his teeth. “And who are you?”

There was a glint of wry amusement in the man’s eyes. “You mean to tell me your mother didn’t keep my picture on the mantel? I’m wounded.”

“You’re . . .” Cal had, of course, known in an instant. He knew it now, with bone-deep certainty.

“Your father. That’s right, Calum.” His gaze flicked away for a moment, and one hand clenched tightly for a brief instant on the rim of the chair’s wheel. But when he looked back at Cal, his gaze was calm. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to call me ‘Dad.’ My name is Douglas—”

“I know your name. You’re Douglas Muir.”

He shrugged, unfazed by Cal’s less-than-welcoming tone. “I wasn’t sure you would. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Daria had banned the speaking of it in her house.”

Cal’s glance strayed, once again, to the blanket that was tucked tight across his father’s lap. “She never said you were . . . uh.”

“She doesn’t know.” Douglas waved a hand dismissively. “It happened after I left. Boating accident. One of the hazards of my . . . lifestyle.”

“You sail?”

He laughed, a low, mellow sound. “That’s how I got here. My sloop is moored at a jetty just south of the hospital grounds. I came as soon as I could. As soon as I got word.”

Cal frowned. There was something very weird about this situation. It was all a bit surreal, and he wasn’t entirely certain that he wasn’t just experiencing some kind of side effect of pain medication. “No offense,” he said, “but why did the hospital call you?”

“Hospital administration didn’t call me. They don’t yet know who you are.” He wheeled to the end of the bed, plucked Cal’s chart from the hook where it hung on a clipboard, and tossed it onto the bed beside him, where it landed with a thump.

Cal fumbled to pick it up with prickly-numb fingers and looked at it, his frown deepening. In the space for his name, it actually said “John Doe.” In the notes section, it made reference to the scars on his face—almost fully healed—and to the injuries to his head—inconclusive as to extent, but indicative of recent trauma. Also, the chart noted the fact that Cal’s lungs had been full of water when he was found, and the nurse who’d accidentally stumbled across him had had to revive him using mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and CPR.

His father wheeled back to the head of the bed. “They were pretty sure you were a goner when they first found you and—”

“What the hell do you mean they don’t know who I am?” Cal interrupted. He was more than a little afraid now and starting to get angry. “If that’s the case, then how did you find out I was here?”

“The girls told me.”

“What girls?”

His father’s green eyes glittered. “The Nereids. Daughters of the sea god Nereus. Lovely things. I believe you’ve made their acquaintance recently?”

Cal felt as if a sudden frost was spreading icy fingers throughout his chest.

Nereids . . .

His thoughts turned to the recent nights when he’d been home on his mother’s estate on Long Island Sound. Nights spent down by the water, watching silently as dozens of beautiful girls cavorted in the waves, swimming and diving, riding on the backs of beasts that were half bull or horse or lion at the front end, half fish with scaly, silvery tails at the back. Cal remembered the feelings of longing to join them . . . the dangerous, scintillating temptation that he’d only narrowly avoided, and sometimes wished he hadn’t.