He couldn’t believe she actually thought he would agree to take her out to the middle of nowhere and just leave her there, much less support her plan to dive without a safety partner. The woman really was crazy. Which was a pity, since he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her. Last night, his dreams had been haunted by images of a beautiful, long-legged blond enchantress who had somehow soothed and aroused him at the same time. Too bad that in person, she just made him livid.
He’d thought for a moment, when he fished her out of the sea the other day, that the universe had gifted him with some kind of miracle. Not that he believed in miracles. But still, there she was, dripping with salt water, like Aphrodite risen from the waves. Instead, she was turning out to be more of a curse. He could almost hear the universe laughing at him.
First, she’d sabotaged their net—he still hadn’t figured out if he bought the idea that she was rescuing a dolphin, or if she really was just one of those crazy activist types as he’d initially thought. Now, she wanted to rent his father’s boat to go out on a suicide mission? So not happening. He’d lost enough men during his years in the war. No one else was ever going to die on him; not if he could help it.
His father . . . well, that wasn’t under his control, as much as he wished it was. The old man would either beat the cancer or he wouldn’t. All Marcus could do was stick around, here in the last place on the planet he wanted to be, and try to keep the stubborn mule from working himself to death while he fought the disease. It would also be good if Marcus could keep himself from giving in to the impulse to strangle his father before the cancer could kill him. That, and maintaining a fishing boat that had suffered from long years of neglect, was enough to have on his plate.
There was no way he was going to allow Beka to risk her life—and the life of everyone around her, since that was the way the flaky ones worked. Most of the time, they didn’t kill themselves; instead, it was the innocents around them that died. Like his brother.
Marcus sucked in his breath as the old grief eddied around him like a riptide, all unexpected waves and downward pull. It was one of the reasons he’d stayed away so long. In the desert, he could go days, sometimes weeks, without thinking of the younger brother who had been his shadow from the day he was born until the day he died, lost over the side of this same ill-fated boat when Kyle was only fifteen.
Now that shadow haunted him in all the silent moments, only eclipsed for a brief time by the bright light that Beka brought with her, captured like a rainbow in her sunshine-colored hair, temptress smile, and sparkling blue eyes.
There was no way he would risk that light going dark. Not on his watch. Never again.
FIVE
BEKA WAS SO mad, steam rose out of her damp footprints on the dock until she noticed what she was doing and reined herself in. That was the problem with magic if you were a Baba Yaga; it was a part of you, like the beat of your heart or the flow of blood through your veins. If you weren’t careful, it seeped out, spilling over into the mundane world.
Not that most people would notice. Back in the old days, in the Old World, magic was accepted and people knew it when they saw it. These days, folks were more likely to explain it away with logic, or suspect a lurking camera crew and Hollywood illusions. Still, she needed to be more careful.
Her sister Baba, Barbara, laughed at her cautious nature and perpetual worrying. Beka thought Barbara was amazing and wished she could be more like her—tough and decisive, not caring what anyone else thought or believed. Maybe when she’d been a Baba for as long as Barbara had been . . . But probably not. At least not as long as her foster mother’s voice drifted like fog through the back of her head, telling her she still wasn’t quite getting it right.
Like now. She’d made a promise—and not just any promise, but one with a magical commitment behind it, writ like words carved into stone—and now she had no way to keep it. She couldn’t believe she’d failed before she even started.
At the end of the pier, she stopped outside the harbormaster’s office to pull herself together, tucking shaky hands into the pockets of her patchwork cotton skirt. Through an open window, she caught the tail end of a heated discussion, two voices raised in head-butting dissent. One of them sounded familiar, with a slight Irish brogue under the bulldog growl.
“I’ve told you,” the voice said. “I’ll pay my mooring fees when I’ve caught something to pay them with. It’s not my fault the damned fish aren’t showing up where they’re supposed to.”
“It’s not my fault either, Dermott,” the other voice said. It was tenor rather than bass, and less filled with ire than the loud Irish rumble, but there was no trace of weakness there either. “Nobody else is catching fish, but they’re all paying what they owe. You’re behind three months already. I can’t just let you keep docking your boat here for free.” There was the clear sound of a deep inhalation. “Why don’t you ask your son to help you? He just got out of the service, right? He’s probably got some money stashed away—nothing much to spend it on over where he was. Get him to pay your mooring fees.”