Fear the Drowning Deep(53)

“I don’t know. I’ve never gone looking for one.” Morag’s foot knocked rhythmically against the table leg.

I gritted my teeth. I was wasting time here, time I could have spent searching for Fynn. If Morag couldn’t answer my next question, I would leave. “Tell me about glashtyns, then. Are they dangerous? What do they do, besides drowning lasses?”

“Glashtyns are rare creatures native to the waters around the Isle,” Morag said flatly. It sounded as though she was quoting her monster book. “They aren’t related to horses, despite their looks. When they come on land, they take the form of dark-haired boys with blue eyes. They like to hunt fish when they aren’t smuggling girls into the sea, but drowning lasses is their favorite sport.”

Morag continued to level her probing gaze at me, and I stared back. “What interests me about your glashtyn is why he hasn’t tried to drown you.”

“I’d like to know that, too. Could it be … because he cares for—?”

“No. A predator doesn’t love its victims. Your friend didn’t just abandon his desire to hunt women, no more than a stoat can stop hunting rabbits. Not without help, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

Morag reached for her mug again, and blinked upon finding it empty. “If he feels anything for you, it’s because something changed him, took away his compulsion to kill. Was there anything unusual about him on the day you met, aside from his injuries?”

Heat crept up my neck as I recalled that first meeting with Fynn. “He was naked. Not a scrap on him.”

“There’s nothing abnormal about that. I eat my breakfast in the nude. Think, girl!”

I looked down at my hands in my lap, trying to focus on the details of Fynn’s rescue instead of dwelling on the image Morag’s words had conjured. That day, I had kneeled beside Fynn’s motionless form, so petrified I hadn’t even thought to check his breathing. I ran my fingers between his wounds, probing for the heat of infection, and—

“When I touched his cuts, it felt like I’d stuck my hand in a beehive.”

Morag cracked a rare smile. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Was there anything on your hand when this happened?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. My fingers just tingled for a minute.”

Morag pursed her lips, tracing a groove in the table with her index finger.

Dropping my gaze to my hands, I examined a bright pink welt on the right one. A thorn from the raspberry bramble must have nicked me when I was foraging earlier. I hadn’t injured that hand since the day I met Fynn, when the shard of glass had sliced my thumb. The wound had still been fresh when I touched him.

I thrust my right hand across the table, and Morag frowned as though I’d offered her a piece of rotten fish. “This is the hand that felt strange when I touched Fynn. I slashed my thumb on a broken bottle.”

Morag’s eyes went from whiskey dreaming to alert in a flash. “And were you still bleeding when you found him?”

“Probably a little.”

“That might explain it.” Morag rose and paced around the table. “Somehow, your blood gave him a bit of humanity. Allowed him to control his urges.”

My cheeks grew warm.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, girl! I mean his predatory urges. What makes a bird catch a fish, and so on.” She resumed her pacing, her bad foot dragging behind her. “He’s been freed from the instinct to kill. I’m certain he would thank you for such a gift, but he’s probably just as ignorant about what happened as you are.”

I cradled my hand against my chest. “You’re saying a drop of my blood allowed him to choose whether or not to drown me? That it’s still allowing him to choose?”

“Aye. All it took was a touch. The mingling of your blood.” Her eyes shone. “That’s magic, a kind few ever possess.”

“Nonsense.”

“Not nonsense. Magic.” Morag continued to circle the table, making my head spin.

“But …” My stomach twisted as I considered a terrible possibility. “Does that mean Fynn’s feelings for me are some sort of magic, too?”

“Of course not. Matters of the heart can’t be affected by enchantments.” With a sigh, Morag finally resumed her seat. “Young people. The only magic they know is the sort they find in each other’s eyes.”

There was a definite note of bitterness in her tone, but I’d pried into her life enough for one day.

I pictured Fynn’s cobalt eyes, always narrowed when we walked through town, but bright and inquisitive when we were alone. No matter what he was, my fingers ached to touch him again, to memorize every ripple of muscle, every bump and imperfection.

“Drink your tea now.” Morag motioned to my untouched cup. “And rest assured, the boy won’t hurt you. You’ve tamed the beast. But there are plenty of other sinister creatures in the water, as we both know.”

I pushed my chair in and folded my arms over my chest, making it clear I didn’t intend to linger over tea today. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay. I’ve got to find Fynn before the fossegrim does.”

Lifting my cup, I took a huge gulp and coughed. I’d never tried whiskey before, and Mam would’ve had a fit if she knew, but it was surprisingly good. The liquor burned through my blood in a dizzying, heady way that felt like courage.