Sins Against the Sea Read Online Free Page A

Alarmed by the sight, Cuan cast around for Murtagh or one of the officers.
    Before he could catch an eye, the conch-blower sounded the retreat. All submerged apart from him. He treaded water for a minute, torn about what to do.
    “Come on, Cuan,” Shan shouted as he surfaced. “What in the name of Hades are you doing?”
    “There’s a leak in the hull,” Cuan returned, pointing. “Do you think we ought to alert your father?”
    “The hull is mostly empty.” Shan sounded as unconcerned as he looked. “We would never attack a full tanker, as the risk to those we are sworn to protect is too great. So, there’s no need to trouble my father with your needless worries. Now, come on, before we miss the victory celebration.”

    * * * *

    Corey Parker rose from the big blue sofa that doubled as her bed with a glass of wine in her hand and a random thought in her head: If apartments were swimwear, mine would definitely be a bikini. A barely-there G-string with an itsy-bitsy kitchen and a teeny-weeny bath.
    Although tiny, her studio boasted arched doorways, coved ceilings, hardwood floors, and a cheerful Spanish-tile fireplace. Better still, French doors opened onto a balcony offering a spectacular view of Naples Island and the Long Beach Marina. The view made the postage stamp worth the exorbitant monthly rent—almost half of her take-home pay as corporate communications director for Conch Oil.
    She stepped out onto the balcony and filled her lungs with fresh, salty air. Ready to drink away the stress of her day, she took a sip from the wineglass in her hand, savoring the oaky undertones and soft citrus finish of her favorite Chardonnay. The balmy sea breeze was just as pleasant and calming. A short distance away, silver moonlight winked at her from the rippled surface of the Pacific Ocean.
    Winking was okay, as long as the water came no closer. She used to love the sea, but after it claimed both her parents, she kept her distance.
    “I’ll claim you one day, too,” it seemed to whisper. “Just like I claimed them.”
    Corey took another gulp of wine and stepped back from the railing. She had only watery impressions of her mom, who’d drowned when her daughter was seven. She hailed from Eynhallow, a small, now uninhabited island in the Orkney archipelago off the northern tip of Scotland—where “the North Sea kissed the Atlantic Ocean,” as her mom used to say with the sweetest of smiles. She always smelled of the beach and had this mesmerizing voice that was soft, deep, and marked by abrupt rises and falls.
    Eynhallow, according to her mother, an avid storyteller, was once the summer stomping grounds of the Finfolk, a race of tall, dark people with brooding faces and magical powers. Apparently, the Finfolk wanted nothing to do with Christianity, not unlike Corey’s mom, who kept an altar to a Norse goddess named Freya in the corner of the living room in their waterfront house in Marina del Rey. Freya, amusingly enough, drove a chariot pulled by a pair of tabby cats.
    Every night, after tucking Corey in, her mom would tell her all sorts of fantastic stories about bewitching merrows, shapeshifting seals, and blood-thirsty sea monsters. Once, she told Corey about a man in Ireland who found two merrows on the side of a rock. Apparently, they’d been washed up on shore by a fierce storm. The mermaid was dead and the merman was barely clinging to life. The Irishman took the poor creature to his house, where he kept him in a tub of water while nursing him back to health.
    Her mom claimed the story was true—that it happened during the Victorian era and was reported in all the papers. Corey, however, who’d inherited her dad’s scientific rationality, could find nothing to substantiate the tale through an internet search a few years later.
    As much as she loved her mom’s colorful folktales, she never believed them. She did, however, appreciate the miracle of the ocean. Take seashells, for example. Like snowflakes,