Marcus swiveled to face her, his visage settling back into its customary wall of stone. For a minute, she thought he wasn’t going to answer her.
“I left the day I turned eighteen,” he said. “Joined up that week, and haven’t been home since. Until now.”
“You said you did three tours.” Beka thought about what little she knew about the military. “That’s twelve years, isn’t it?” She blinked. Babas were solitary creatures, for the most part, except for the time they spent training their replacements (usually about fifteen or sixteen years, for most, although Beka’s mentor had stuck around for a lot longer, since she didn’t trust Beka to manage on her own). But Beka knew that Humans usually valued family as much as the Selkies and the Merpeople did. “You couldn’t get back here to visit in all that time? That’s so sad.”
Marcus stood up abruptly, his large shadow blocking out the sun. “Not really,” he said shortly. “We don’t get along.”
Beka opened her mouth to say something, but he stalked off toward the port side and didn’t say another word to her until the Wily Serpent glided into the harbor as smoothly as its name.
THREE
MARCUS LEFT HIS father and the guys unloading the few fish they’d managed to salvage and stowed Beka and her surfboard into his battered ancient Jeep. During the trip back into shore, Beka’s hair had dried to reveal its true color, a golden yellow the color of sunshine. In rippled down her back like silk, smelling faintly of summer memories and shining in the bright morning light. For some reason, it kept catching at his vision out of the corner of one eye, distracting him.
There was something generally sunshiny about her, in fact. She seemed to radiate a kind of cheerful glow that both attracted and annoyed him. He couldn’t pin down exactly why that was, which also attracted and annoyed him. Thank goodness he’d be rid of her soon. His life was complicated enough. And he was kind of used to the gray that colored everything in his world since he’d gotten home, as though he’d been wrapped in slightly dingy cotton wool.
He parked in a spot off Highway One, with the ocean on one side and a steep bluff on the other. There were no houses in sight, but this was where she’d instructed him to bring her. What the hell was the woman playing at now?
“I thought you said you lived near here,” he said, not trying to hide his scowl.
Beka nodded, sliding out of the Jeep and grabbing her board. She gestured to the bluff. “I live up there, at least for the moment.” She cast a wicked grin in his direction. “You can wait down here for me if you want.”
“Not a chance.” He looked at the nearly vertical path that cut into the sandy incline. “You carry your surfboard up and down that thing?”
“Just about every day,” she said, tucking it under one arm effortlessly and heading toward a path. Her wet suit hung around her hips, revealing a simple white one-piece suit and lots of toned, tanned girl. He tried not to watch her perfect butt as he followed her up the hill.
Marcus stopped at the top of the bluff to get the lay of the land. At first glance, there was nothing much there—a few windblown trees, a patch of ragged land more weeds than grass, and . . .
“Is that a school bus?” he asked. It had the right shape, but the entire thing was painted with a mural of an underwater seascape of blues shading into aqua and greens, complete with colorful fish, playful seals and dolphins, and a scantily clad mermaid wearing an enchanting smile. He walked around to look at the other side, bemused, and found a sinuous sea serpent with crimson, orange, and yellow scales curling in and around the windows. Whoever had done the painting was wasted on buses; the entire effect was so realistic, he felt like he could swim right into the world in front of him. A tiny shiver ran down his spine.
“That’s my home; at least, its current incarnation,” Beka said with another one of her sideways smiles. “A little flashy, I know, but it looked that way when I inherited it from my foster mother.” An eye roll accompanied the statement. “Some people got way too attached to the sixties.”
Marcus shook his head. Great. A flake from a long line of flakes. It figured. He was much more impressed by the improbably well-preserved Karmann Ghia with a surfboard rack on top, parked alongside a shiny black Vespa motorcycle. Nice toys for a crazy surfer girl. Maybe she has a rich father. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about taking her food money to pay for this morning’s mess.
“I’ll go get you the money,” Beka said, echoing his thought as she headed toward the door to the bus. Marcus followed her in, more out of curiosity than distrust.