“Showme your hand,” the leader said. Richard didn’t move, because hecouldn’t.
Clampinghis arm against his side to keep him still, the goon on the rightforced Richard’s hand up, squeezing his palm to straighten and spreadhis fingers.
“Webbed,”the leader observed. “You know the stories?”
Richardstruggled, mostly on principle, and the two guards gripped him evenharder. His hands were growing numb. “Yeah.”
“Tellme the story.”
Hismother met a handsome stranger under circumstances she never talkedabout. He’d always lived by the sea, and his mother would always lookout at the waves as if she was searching for something. It was justthe waves, he thought. How could anyone not look at the waves with asense of longing? It was just the way things were.
“Tell me the story,”the naked man repeated, stepping forward andlifting his spear to threaten.
Richardwas sure the guy wouldn’t actually hurt him. Pretty sure.“The story goes, the child of a selkie and a human will have webbedfeet and hands.”
“Youbelieve that? You think it’s real, those stories you’ve heard?” the manasked.
Justa mutation. Richard’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
Theman smiled like he’d won something. “Well, then. Why are you here,selkie’s child?”
“Idon’t know,” Richard said, suddenly tired. “I don’t even know.” He’dwanted to find something, but he hadn’t known that he’d been looking.He’d wanted an answer, an origin—but this wasn’t quite it.
“I thinkit’s fate.” The leader nodded, and his two guards let go. Richard’sarms dropped. He wiped blood from his cheek and stared up at this manwith salt-crusted hair. “Do you know who you are, selkie’s child?”
“Ihave a feeling you’re going to tell me.” Richard chuckled, letting goof good judgment, of trying to make sense of this. He ought to bethinking of escape—he was sure he could swim to shore. But he couldn’tswim faster than seals or mermaids.
“You’rethe son of the seal king. And so am I.”
Thestatement was no more outlandish than the fact of him sitting onthese rocks, talking to these men in the first place, all of themslipped out of time and reality. He studied the man standing beforehim, trying to find any part of himself: eyes, nose, build, or manner.He couldn’t see it.
“Howdo you know?”
“Thesea hears. The sea tells stories. You know it. You’ve listened.”
He’dbeen watching the sea the whole drive down the coast. He parked becauseit seemed like a good spot. He’d been looking for something,or following something. He’d been trying to drown.
Hespread his hands, felt the membrane of the webbing stretch. A crowd ofseals had gathered, staying a respectful distance off, but theywatched, looking back and forth between them with an eerie awareness.
Theman—who somehow seemed at home on the rocky outcrops, even as he seemedterribly out of place, bare-skinned and primal in a modern world—movedto a spot and reached into a hidden depression. With his free hand hedrew out an object, a folded weight of something, thick and wide,almost too large for him to lift. He held it up like a prize. It wasgray, sunlight reflected off a rubbery sheen.
Sealskin.
Richardalmost reached out to touch it, but stopped himself. His hand wasshaking again.
“Myfather—our father—sent me to find you,” the leader said. “I don’t likeit at all—there should only be one Seal Prince. But I see why he did. Isee the wisdom of it. We need warriors—”
“Why?”Richard said, laughing outright. “What kind of wars can you possiblyhave to fight, when all you have are spears and seaweed—”
TheSeal Prince’s two guards tensed, and the damp seals around themgrumbled and shifted.
ThePrince merely smiled. “There are other tribes of our kind. They raidour fishing grounds and we raid theirs. We defend our territory. Butyou—you don’t understand what it is to have a home, do you, selkie’schild? Would you like to learn? I can give you this.” The sealskin wasa limp, still version of the creatures gathered around him.
Richardhad a flash of a vision, a lifetime encompassed in a beautifulmoment, sunlight streaming through green-gray waters, nudged by acurrent as he dived along rocks, his body curving and twisting withthe shape of the surf, clothed in the smoothness of the skin he’d beengiven, the second skin he’d longed for all his life without knowing—
Butit would be a borrowed skin, an act of charity. He wasn’t born to thewater, not like these men were. He was born at the edges, in the surf,half of him in each world. He could swim like a fish and hold hisbreath for ten minutes. He could fight and kill—and was that all theyneeded him for? What then, when the war was over?
“Heleft us. My mother and I—he left us. Whyshould I think that he, that any of you, care about me now?”
“He’sbeen listening for you all this time, hasn’t he? We know about the boyyou shot, the hostages you didn’t save. The feeling of fear and offailure, and how you haven’t had a good day since.”
Hedidn’t need to be told. Being told made him angry, and it put him backthere. That chaotic moment when your thinking brain didn’t know whatthe hell was going on but your training knew exactly what to do, andyou already had the target in your sights. Enemy shots fired, andwhen your captain yelled, “Take it, take it!” you were alreadybreathing out and squeezing the trigger. The Somali boy’s head whippedback. A crack shot on rough seas and a rush of triumph. This was thekind of shot they gave medals for. He didn’t really see the kid when heshot him. He saw the gun, he saw the enemy, he’d felt very rationalabout the whole thing. When it was all over, the water he’d swum inlooked just like this. When they arrived at the skiff and examinedthe aftermath, the rush died. The pirateswere dead. So were the three hostages. The pirates had been trapped sothey lashed out, taken a stand the only way they could, and if Richardhad made the shot two seconds earlier, the aid workers he’d beentrying to save would have survived. Nobody’s fault, no reprimandsneeded. Just the bad odds of a bad situation. Two sides with guns faceoff, people
