The Hunted

“Oh, he was pretty, wasn’t he?”

Beth flushed, and laughed at being caught—and by Sarah, of all people.

“Is the town starting a new beautification project?” she asked her old schoolmate and current Beautification Board member, who had also stopped on the sidewalk, apparently to watch the stranger walk by. Humor was better than admitting she had been caught in the act of goggling. “Because if so,” she continued, “I gotta say, I approve.”

“I wish,” Sarah said. “But we’d have to raise taxes too much to afford that kind of pretty. You know who he is?”

“No ….” Honesty forced her to add, “I think he’s our newest resident, the guy who washed up on shore.”

“Really? Is he single?”

“You’re not,” Beth pointed out, fighting a surge of bitterness in her gut that surprised her. Was the eggroll suddenly disagreeing with her stomach?

“Oh. Right. Darn. And I was supposed to meet the hubby and the brats ten minutes ago. Don’t be such a stranger!”

Beth promised, and then the postmaster waved from the counter, a large brown envelope in his hand. She went back in to pick up her packages, but her mind remained on the stranger in the street. Who was he? Why had such a quick glimpse of a stranger gotten her so worked up?

Maybe she had been running a fever, some kind of twenty-four-hour bug. That would explain everything, the weird twitches, the visual fluctuations, even the acid churning in her stomach. Maybe.

She walked out of the post office, her mail in hand, and looked across the street at the café where her friends had grabbed a table. She could see them inside, gesturing and laughing over their coffee. It was still early. Her bike was still locked up outside the diner. She should retrieve it and her safety helmet, go back to the house and get some work done. But even as she thought that, clutching her mail in one hand, Beth found herself torn between responsibility and a renewed restlessness.

Should, should … Suddenly, she didn’t care so much about “should.”

She tucked the packages into her bag and stepped off the curb, walking across the street to the café. She would take some time off, have a nice pot of tea with friends, instead of her usual solitary coffee. All in the name of taking care of her health, of course …

And absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that their window seat would be the perfect place to spot the stranger, if he walked by again.

* * *

Inland, across the bridge that connected the island to the mainland, in a small storefront office, a landline connected, and an old man picked up on the second ring. “Yes?” He didn’t identify himself. Anyone who had this number was calling for only one reason, and names weren’t required.

What they did wasn’t illegal, technically. But only technically.

“You’re certain?” he asked, pulling out a notepad and writing down the details. There was a plastic sheet under the page, preventing an impression being made on the sheet underneath. The technicality they worked under was best never tested in court.

The voice on the other end of the line was quite certain. The circumstances suggested, blood work confirmed, and he would like his bonus now, please.

“No sighting bonus until our team confirms,” the man on the receiving end snapped, exasperated. Freelancers, bah. Every stray surfer, they tried to claim. “You have your stipend to tide you over, same as always. If you’re as certain as you claim, then the bonus will be cut soon enough. We will be in touch.”

He hung up the phone, and then picked it up again and dialed a single digit. There hadn’t been a verified sighting here in almost two decades. But before then, this had been a major harvesting area. You didn’t take chances, not with so much money involved.

“This is Station 22. I need to schedule a Hunt.”

Chapter 4

The storm passed, but the restlessness remained. This morning, Beth didn’t even pretend to be exercising, but instead found a large rock overlooking the ocean and climbed out onto it, letting her legs dangle off the edge exactly the way they warned teenagers about doing. A carafe of coffee beside her, and the remains of a cinnamon Danish on her lap, Beth stared out at the morning waves and tried to capture some of her usual serenity.

Now, that serenity felt more like death, and the camera on the opposite side of her, the object that usually gave her context for her moods, remained capped and unused.

She had dreamed again last night. Not an erotic dream this time, but a sad one. A dream of loss, and longing, and lose-lose scenarios. On waking, the details had fled. But as she stared into the gray-blue of the Atlantic, the memory stirred.

His daughter was crying ….

In the dream, it was a lovely summer’s morning, the sun barely breaking over the rooftops of the village. A man stood in the surf, the cold blue-green Atlantic waters washing about his ankles, the gritty wet sand moving below his bare feet, a fish braver or more foolish than the rest of its school nibbling curiously at the rough fabric of his trousers. The rest of his clothing he had left, clean and neatly folded, on the bed in the cottage. When his son, his Isaac, grew to a man’s height, he could wear them.

Or they could be passed on, still fashionable, if Sarah took another husband.

The thought should not be a hook in his gut, so surprisingly sharp and painful. Was he then so easily replaced? He had never meant to linger so long, never meant to make a life here, never meant to create children … Isaac and baby Ruth. His children, his and Sarah’s.

Bright-eyed Sarah. Fearless Sarah, who faced down storms and sickness with such calm courage and practical sure-handedness. Who had found him wracked up in the rocks after a bad storm four years before and taken him in, nursed him to health, and asked no questions when he slipped out of her bed and down to the sea—and asked no questions when he came back, wrapping sea-damp arms around her, kissing away her tears with salt-streaked lips. Who ignored the tsking of the village women to bear his children, sell his daily catch of fish in the market: who had every reason to believe that she would grow old with him at her side.

The thought pained him, that he would disappoint her so. And yet …

Come home, the sea whispered to him, as it had for a week or more, now, until he could no longer resist. It is time to come home.

He had loved Sarah, their family, as well as he could, as much and as long as a mortal could be loved by one such as he. Sarah knew that. They had their season, and more. It was time, past time for him to go. That was how all stories such as theirs ended.

Come home.

He missed his colony, the sounds of his kin. And yet …

“I can’t.” He didn’t know who he was speaking to, what he was denying. His feet moved him deeper into the water, even as his heart tied him to the land.

His brave Sarah, crying.

His daughter was crying.

Come home.

The water always takes back its own.

He took another step, and stopped.

“Not this time. Tethys, forgive me, not this time.”

A stillness in the waves, the water chilling against his skin, urging him in.

“I … cannot. My home is here now.”

The stillness broke, the sea’s voice replaced by another. There is a price for what you ask ….

“Anything. For them … for them anything I will pay.”

The voice went on as though it had not heard him. There is a price … that all must pay. Forever.

The dream, the memory faded and disappeared, yet forever echoed in Beth’s ears, a sense of inexplicable loss settling in her soul, and a single salty tear escaped, unnoticed, from the corner of her eye as she stared out into the hypnotic flow of the ocean.

Dylan wanted to swear. Four days. Four days since he had given in to the itch, left the safety of his home and swum into human lands, the totally human world. This small village was close enough to his own home that he could adapt, but the bits and pieces he caught, in the ads and conversations around him, were overwhelming.