Today was the season’s first run, traditionally taking out the high school dive team to find what the last winter’s storm had unearthed before the currents could cover it again. Come Friday and the first of the fudgies, all the real stuff would be carefully cataloged, and the nails and buttons planted for the tourists would be in place. Ethical? I didn’t know. It would be disappointing to spend this much money and have nothing to show for it, even if it was fake.
With his youthful physique, Jenks fit in, looking good in the rented wet suit and his red local-yokel knit hat down tight about his ears. Cheeks ruddy with cold, he sipped at his coffee, so thick with sugar it was syrupy. God, he looked good enough to eat, I thought, then flushed and crossed my legs at my knees despite making it harder to keep my balance.
“Want some coffee with your sugar, Jenks?” I asked, and he froze as a wave dropped us.
“You going to ask Captain Speedo before or after you get in the water?” Jenks shot back.
I gave him a soft thwack on his leg to burn off a burst of angst. He didn’t jump this time and I felt better, not minding that he was quietly laughing at me.
While Jenks snickered, I turned to Marshal. The captain had been watching me from the corner of his eye since I boarded. Unlike the rest of us in wet suits, he was wearing only a black Speedo and a red windbreaker, his bare, comfortably muscled legs showing goose bumps. Clearly the man was cold but too much of a stud to admit it. Bracing myself against the bouncing waves, I opened my mouth to attract his attention, but Debbie called to him, drawing him away again.
Damn it. I slumped back down in my seat. What in hell was wrong with me?Forcing my breathing to slow, I waited for his assistant to finish asking him whatever deathly important question she had. The sun glinted prettily on the water, and I found myself thinking this was an ungodly time to be out here, much less awake. Jenks was fine, seeing as he was usually up long before sunrise, and I could hear him muttering, “Nine forty-eight, nine forty-eight,” as he tried to shift his internal clock. The thrum of the engine was lulling me into a drowsy state despite the caffeine and the nap Jenks had made me take yesterday.
Trying not to yawn, I straightened, my hand straying to my waist pack with my charms and splat gun safe in their zippy bags. A good deal of yesterday had been spent in the almost unusable kitchen. I’d purchased a disposable copper insert for spelling at a discount store, and Jenks traded maple syrup for everything else I needed to craft the sleepy-time charms and the scent disguise spells.
The paint ball gun shop had been the hardest to find, being “left where the old post office used to be, past the Baptist church that burned down in ’seventy-five, and right at the Higgan’s farm turnaround. Can’t miss it.”
Between yesterday’s predive class, grilling Jax for details, my six hours spelling, and the three hours we spent at the Mackinaw Fort doing the tourist thing, I was mentally and physically tired. But the oddest thing by far had been watching Jenks teach Jax how to read.
The little pixy was picking it up faster than I would have thought possible. While I stirred my spells, Jenks and Jax had watched Sesame Street, of all things, the music and puppets seemingly making a direct line to the pixy mentality. One song in particular seemed to have wedged itself into my head, the tune-worm settling firmly around my cerebral cortex like an alien from an SF movie.
Seeing my foot tapping to its catchy beat, I stilled it, wondering if I’d be stuck with the tune the rest of the day and what Elmo would find wrong with this situation. The splat gun in my fanny pack? The six-foot pixy beside me? Take your pick, Elmo, and try not to giggle.
Bois Blanc Island was taking on definition, the top of a lighthouse peeking over the trees making me glad I was going in underwater. We had already passed the no-automobile Mackinac Island, and the huge bridge was to the left and behind us, spanning the narrows between the two peninsulas. Yeah, narrows. It stretched over four freakin’ miles. An ocean-going tanker was passing under the bridge, looking like a mouse under a chair.
The bridge was enormous, and according to the place mat under my burger last night, it came in only feet shorter in height than Carew Tower, the support towers being five hundred feet up and two hundred feet down to bedrock. It was the third longest suspension bridge in the world, the longest in the western hemisphere. It was a big sucker, claiming five men’s lives in its construction, one never found; hitting water at that height was like hitting a cement parking lot. I’d expect to see something like it in a big city, not out in the boonies where moose and wolves crossed the ice in the winter.
I lurched when the thrum of the engine dropped in pitch and the boat slowed, rocking as our own wake rolled under us. The six guys clustered at the back of the boat jostled and pushed, showing off for Debbie, all done up in her rubber wet suit. Her chest looked like a Barbie doll’s, whereas mine was more like her little sister Ellie’s. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was the reason most of the slobbering sacks of hormones had joined the diving club in the first place.
“God, I feel old, Jenks,” I whispered, tucking a stray red curl behind an ear.
“Yeah, me too.”
Damn it. I wondered if I could jam my foot any farther down my throat. The wind seemed to shift as the boat turned, and Debbie expertly hooked the buoy and tied us off. The diving flag went up the pole, the engine cut out, and the level of excitement grew.
“Divers, listen up!” Marshal said, standing to garner everyone’s attention. “Look to your guides. They’ll give you your warmth amulets and make sure they’re working, though I’m sure you’ll sing out once you hit the water if they aren’t.”
“You got it, Coach,” one of the kids sang out in a high falsetto, gaining laughs.
“That’s Captain when we’re on the water, smartass,” Marshal said, flicking a glance at Jenks and me. “Debbie, you take the boys,” he said, unzipping his windbreaker. “I’ll take Mr. Morgan and his sister.”
Not feeling at all bad for the lie on the release form, I stood and the butterflies started.
“Any time, Rache,” Jenks muttered, and I thwacked him with my foot.
Two of the boys gave each other high-fives, clustering around the woman in rubber as she comfortably fended off their exuberance. She knew them by name, and it looked like this was an old game. My pulse quickened when the line of tanks got shorter as they unlatched them from the side and spun them to the back of the boat. Everyone seemed to know what to do, even the guy who drove us out there, now settling himself in the bow in the sun with a handheld game.
“Miss?”
I jerked, bringing my attention back to find myself eye-to-chest with Captain Marshal. My God, he was tall. And really, really…hairless. Completely. Not a hint of hair on him marred the even honey tone of his skin. No beard. No mustache. No eyebrows, which had bothered me yesterday until I realized that like a lot of professional swimmers, he probably used a potion to remove it. Earth charms aren’t very specific, taking off everything, which might sound like a good idea, but isn’t unless you don’t mind being bald. Everywhere.
He was smiling, his brown eyes expectant. The man was in his late twenties by the look of his lean muscled legs, bare to the wind, and the defined abs stacked above his tiny Speedo. Bald looked good on Marshal, I decided. Well-defined legs, wide shoulders, and in between was mmmmmmmm good. And he was a witch with his own business. My mother would love this one, I mused, then grimaced, remembering the last time I’d thought that.
“I’ll be your guide today,” he said, glancing from me to Jenks, now standing behind me. “We’re going to let the dive team get out of the way, and then we’ll follow.”
“Sounds good,” I said, hearing a forced cheerfulness in my voice, but inside I was scrambling. There were too many people. I wanted to ask him privately, but I was running out of time.
“Here’s your charms,” Marshal continued, handing me a plastic bag with two redwood disks in them. His gaze landed on my neck, still bruised from Karen, and fell away. “They’re already invoked. You can put them on now, though you’ll be toasty until you get in the water.”“Uh, thanks,” I stammered, fingering them through the insulating plastic. They were stickered with his name and license number on one side. All I needed to do was put one on so it touched my skin and even the slight chill from the morning would be gone.
I handed the bag to Jenks, who immediately shook one into his palm, sighing in relief at the warmth. Satisfied they worked, I gave serious consideration to shooting everyone with a sleepy-time charm and just stealing everything. “Um, Mr. Marshal…”
He ducked his head, smiling at me to show even white teeth. I could smell the heady scent of redwood coming from him like spice. He made his own charms; I could tell. “Captain Marshal,” he said as if it was a joke. “Marshal is my first name.”
“Captain Marshal,” I amended. “Look, I’ve got to ask you something.”
Debbie called, and he put up a long finger. “Just a sec,” he said, and walked away.
“Damn it!” I exclaimed under my breath. “What in hell is wrong with that woman! Can’t she do anything without asking him?”