Siren's Call

Opal patted her shoulder. “Poor Lily. Don’t worry—I won’t say anything to Nash.”

Lily shifted uncomfortably. Opal made her feel...beholden. Guilty. As if they shared something dirty. “Doesn’t matter. He’s bound to hear the talk, too.”

“Maybe not. He and his grandfather live pretty isolated. And Nash has been reclusive the past couple of years. He doesn’t get out much.” Opal winked. “So you see, probably nothing to worry about.”

Again, a prickly unease settled over Lily. She smiled uncertainly. “If you say so,” she agreed. Her family had grown up secluded from the townsfolk, making it easier to keep their shape-shifting abilities a secret.

Secrecy was a habit she’d have to let slip if she wanted a girlfriend.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_54531d65-c609-5bd8-80be-2cb47ecdc612)

Sunset through the pines cast coral and mauve spears of light across land and sea. Nash had returned to the cabin on the evening ferry, bent on a mission. Now he trudged through mosquito-infested lowland, shotgun at his side. Diseased or not, the coyote was clever at eluding him. In spite of pain and fear, the will to live was strong in the animal. Nash respected that.

The wind shifted, hot air rippling across his sweaty skin. The fresh scent of pine needles had an underlying taint. Nash followed it, back on the coyote’s track. Another fifty yards ahead, the smell of sickness grew thicker and obliterated the pine odor.

Black energy seeped inward as he drew near. Most likely the unfortunate coyote had been ousted from his pack, a threat to the group’s survival. Cold fingers of loneliness fidgeted along his spine as he sensed the animal’s toxic miasma. Nash picked up a faint, rumbling groan. Not the growl of an aggressive animal, but the mewling of one suffering.

Nash emitted a calming message. Your time has come. Let’s end the pain.

An answering whine came from behind a dense clump of saw palmetto trees not a dozen yards to his right. The coyote emerged, trembling, its amber eyes dull and flat. Mottled gray fur encased an emaciated body. Telltale foam bubbled along its tapered muzzle. Rabies had rendered the animal unable to swallow its own saliva.

Nash ever so slowly raised the shotgun, not wanting to provoke the animal. I’m sorry. This will be quick, I promise you. His right index finger crooked onto the metal trigger.

The coyote leapt, snarling and baring sharp teeth, amber eyes alit in a last-shot bid to escape death. Fur, fear and fury hurled toward Nash and he pulled the trigger.

An explosive boom rang out. The reverberation from the shot was still echoing as the dead coyote’s body hit the ground with a thump. Nash closed his eyes and drank in the silence until peace washed through the woods.

It was done.

He took out the garbage bag and latex gloves he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans. To prevent spread of the rabies virus, it was necessary to bag the coyote and put it in a protected place until he could return in the morning with a shovel and bury the dead body.

Quickly, he attended to the last rites. You were brave. A fighter to the end. May you join a ghostly pack in happy hunting grounds. Satisfied with the work, he retraced his path. The air was a shade darker than when he’d first set out. At a fork on the dirt trail he hesitated. Better check on the old man. Grandfather had missed dinner and the thought of his eighty-two-year-old grandfather being unaccounted for left Nash uneasy. Instead of continuing home, Nash set off for the marsh. Sam often fished all day out there.

Sure enough, he found his grandfather sitting in a chair, fishing pole in hand. The tip of his cigar glowed in the gathering twilight. Nash walked up behind him.

Without turning around, Sam spoke. “Heard the shot. You get that coyote?”

“I did.” Nash settled on the ground close by after making sure he was clear of fire-ant mounds. Their sting was like being poked by flaming hypodermic needles. “Sorry I haven’t been to see you in a couple days.”

“You’re busy. Besides, I went years without seeing you. Two days is nothing.”

Guilt made him defensive. “You were always welcome to visit me. Why do you stay here all the time? There’s a big, wide world outside this backwoods.”

Sam stared ahead at the black water. “True. But there’s also a whole world here you’re missing.”

“Hardly. I’ve hiked every inch of this area over the years.”

“Ah, but you haven’t swam all over it.”

Nash gave him a sideways glance. “And if I did, what would it matter? I’ve swam in all the seven seas.”

The tip of Sam’s cigar glowed brighter as he took a draw.

“Should you really be smoking with your heart trouble?”

“I’m not forsaking my little pleasures. I’ve lived over eight decades, you know.”

“Yeah, but if you want to make another decade, you need to give up those things.” He pointed to the cigar with a jab of his finger.

Sam tipped his head back and exhaled a smoke ring within a smoke ring.

“When do you go back for another doctor’s visit? I want to go with you.” Guilt lashed him; months ago when Sam had undergone a triple bypass operation, Nash had been on an African safari assignment. His grandfather had recouped alone until he’d finagled an assignment nearby. Nash had sent a paid home health care assistant, but his grandfather had dismissed her before two weeks were up, claiming he could take care of himself.

“At least think about giving up frying everything in bacon grease,” Nash urged.

Sam didn’t respond and Nash frowned at the grey tinge that underlaid Sam’s olive skin. The fishing pole trembled slightly in his grandfather’s unsteady hand.

A rush of nostalgia overcame Nash. As a child, his grandfather’s cabin had been a haven of peace from his parents’ tumultuous marriage. He’d missed the summer visits after Mom had whisked him away to her home state of Massachusetts. His grandfather could have visited them, but he refused to leave the bayou. Nash doubted he’d ever been north of the Mason-Dixon line his entire life.

The pole jerked and Sam smiled, face crinkling. He detached a good-sized brim and placed it in a rolling ice chest with several others. “Fried fish dinner tonight.”

Nash shook his head. He’d suggest baking the fish but knew his grandfather wouldn’t go for the healthier option. “Ready to get home and eat? It’s getting dark.”

“I can see well enough, plus I have my flashlight.”

A knowing look passed between them. They could each sense their way in darkness. His grandfather had some of the same supernatural senses that he did, although not as strong. By agreement, they seldom spoke of it.

Sam closed the lid of the small cooler. “Let’s sit a spell afore we go. Have I ever told you the story—”

Nash almost groaned. Not another story.

“—of the Okwa Nahollo?”

“No,” he said, surprised. He thought he’d heard every Choctaw tale a thousand times, but this was new. “Does that translate to ‘pale water people’?”

“White people of the water,” Sam corrected. “Extremely white.”

An image of Lily’s soft-hued face flashed through him. He hated admitting it, but he’d missed her the past two days he’d stayed on the island.

“With skin the color of trout because they lived undersea,” his grandfather continued.

Talk about a tall fish tale. Nash refrained from grinning. “Like mermaids?”

Sam shook his head. “No. They aren’t half fish and half human. They have human form except their legs are almost twice as long as ours. Their fingers and toes are webbed and their eyes glow like some deep-sea fishes do.”

“Of course, so they can see better in dark water.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, as if suspicious Nash was amused. “Exactly.”