Selkie's Revenge

Orkney Selkies Book 2

Rosanna Leo

Published 2013

ISBN: 978-1-62210-015-6

Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2013, Rosanna Leo. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Liquid Silver Books

http://LSbooks.com

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

On the beaches of Orkney, Scotland, an evil entity stalks mortal women. Machar “Mack” Kirk is a selkie man with a haunted past, one that has prompted him to become a hunter. He prowls the beaches at night, his arrows aiming for the finman who took his first love.

Beth Pedersen also watches the sea. The haunted widow has suffered losses of her own, ones that have crippled her into a state of stony grief. Beth can no longer feel, can no longer see color and life. Until the day Mack Kirk saves her from a mysterious foe, flooding her world with brightness and foreign temptation.

As Mack and Beth fight their inundating passion, the finman escalates his attacks. Before long, Mack realizes he’s not just playing Good Samaritan. He wants Beth, too, and will do anything to ensure his lover isn’t taken by the finman. But can he protect his mate from a monster with no soul?

Dedication

To my son Daniel, who is braver than anyone I know.

Acknowledgements

As always, I would like to thank the team at Liquid Silver Books for their support and guidance. Thanks to Jennifer Hassani for her tireless cheerleading. Thanks to my wonderful editors, Rory Olsen and Debbie Gillen. And a big thank you to my readers. You inspire me every day!

“Come on, you evil bastards. Show yourselves.”

Machar Kirk, selkie man and hunter of finmen, stood sentinel on a dark Orkney beach. Though he’d patrolled this stretch of the shore a thousand times over, he never let down his guard. Despite the nighttime quiet, Machar knew full well eyes watched those who strolled these sands. Over the past two hundred years, the interval during which he’d been hunting, he’d seen enough cases to give anyone nightmares. He peered into the sea, keen eyes focused on the pounding surf, looking for any irregularity in the tumble of the waves. If there was any indication a finman might be nearby, waiting for an opportunity and reason to surface in his diabolic vessel, he’d spot it.

Machar waited for one particular finman. The one he’d pursued unsuccessfully for several human lifetimes. This finman would feel the tip of the hunter’s poisoned arrows. He may have eluded Machar for years, but he couldn’t hide forever.

Eyes narrowed on the horizon, he grazed the formidable weapon slung over his shoulder with an absentminded touch. Wielding his bow and arrows, he knew he appeared just as intimidating as any finman, but no mortal had cause to fear him. He stood watch on behalf of the humans, itching to protect those who could not protect themselves.

It would only take one lonely woman to entice a finman out of his watery hiding place. He would be ready.

As each hour of his vigil elapsed, Machar gave thanks no one had chosen to walk the beach this night. As daylight broke over the sea, caressing the whitecaps with a soft, rosy hue, Machar decided to call an end to the evening’s hunt. It had been a good night, even though no finman blood had been spilled. No women had come to harm this time, and that was what mattered most. He replaced his silver-tipped arrow in his quiver and turned away from the water’s edge.

And saw her.

A young woman, no, a teenaged girl, no more than sixteen, wandering toward the shore, unsteady on her feet, her legs tangling in the tall grass lining the edge of the beach.

His selkie sense of smell picked up on the scent of booze even though he was at least fifty feet away from her. His animal olfactory senses transferred the fragrance to his tongue and he tasted peach schnapps. “Drunk as a skunk and headed for the beach, lass?” he murmured to himself. “Someone’s had a rough night.”

The girl gesticulated to no one in particular and mumbled, clearly reliving an argument in her head. She’d probably been dumped and was out for a lonely stroll, mulling over all the things she’d done wrong. Machar watched as she kicked at the sand and almost fell. He moved closer.

Right on cue, as if sensing a woman in distress, another presence made itself known. Machar turned to his left, glancing out to sea, and saw a black figure levitating on the waves. The dark creature with burning eyes who beckoned to the girl from his bedeviled kayak.

Is it him?

Machar released his pent-up breath. It was the wrong finman. Still a heartless sorcerer, but not the one against whom he’d sworn vengeance. Most finmen had yellow eyes. The one he sought had deviant orange eyes, a unique shade he would never forget, for they taunted him in his nightmares.

As entranced as any other victim of the finmen he’d ever seen, the young woman turned and began walking toward the entity on the water. She could not resist the call of the finman. No mortal woman could.

Without hesitation, Machar ran forward, reaching back to retrieve the arrow from the quiver on his back. He knocked it into the bow and aimed.

“Not tonight, you dirty beast,” he called.

The finman looked at Machar and let out what could only be a howl of frustration at the sight of the silver arrows. Machar knew his arrows were the stuff of legend among the finmen. Not many instruments could kill one, but his could.

“That’s right,” he called to the finman. “One wrong move and this point will find a new home in your chest. And I’ve had a lot of time to practice my aim. Feel like testing me?”

The creature glanced once more at the girl, at Machar, and then paddled back out to sea in his kayak.

Machar waited for a few moments to make sure the finman was gone and then hurried over to the confused girl, replacing the arrow in the quiver as he did so as not to scare her. He frowned at her, willing her to understand him, even through her schnapps haze. “Go home, lass. Don’t ever come to the beach alone. Bad things linger here.”

The frightened young woman gasped, turned away, and scurried off the beach toward the road.

Machar followed her at a discreet distance to make sure she got home safely. And then, his heart heavy despite his triumph, he walked the desolate country roads toward his home.

* * * *

Machar’s head pounded and his stomach turned in apprehension as he lay on his bed the next day. The same symptoms he’d had for weeks, and he knew it had nothing to do with his endless search for the blasted finman. Something was wrong with him. He had the strange sensation the steel-toed boots of fate were about to kick him in the nuts.

Something was coming for him. Every day, he had to resist the urge to look over his shoulder. The foreboding feeling was so prevalent it was manifesting physically.

It was certainly playing havoc with his bodily functions this morning.

“Let me lick you here. You like it when I do that.”

Machar groaned at the teasing sound of Leda’s voice. He propped himself up on his elbows so he could admire the pretty lips teasing his tadger. Leda, his old selkie friend and regular booty call, was having a grand old time down there. Eager to reach some sort of climax, something that had evaded him for weeks, Machar lay back and squeezed his eyes shut.

Think of naked women. Hordes of naked women, rubbing themselves all over you
.

The tempting vision fizzled, and it wasn’t long before his mind started to wander. It had been wandering a lot lately and always when he and Leda were occupied in bed.

Not to discredit Leda. She performed as well as any selkie woman could, which meant she was bloody well perfect in the sack. It was true of any other of their kind. Selkies were known for their lovemaking skills. Hell, they were sought out for them. Machar knew the myths surrounding his people and knew they weren’t myth at all. He’d grown up hearing the tales of lonely human folk desperate to snag an immortal selkie lover. It wasn’t easy finding one. They didn’t exactly advertise in the local papers. But anyone from Orkney, Scotland, would have heard the legends.

Cry seven tears into the sea, and if a woman was lucky, a selkie would answer that call and love her senseless. If she was smart enough to steal his seal pelt, he would be hers until he stole it back.

The magic worked for men as well as women. Leda, being a selkie woman, had taken great enjoyment in her role over the years, catering to any number of lust-struck sailors and fishermen. She remained a consummate professional.

Machar looked at his old friend again. As hard as she was working now, his body wasn’t responding the way it should. Normally, Leda just had to lick her lips and he was as hard as the village vicar’s noggin.

Leda sensed his lack of enthusiasm and removed her mouth from his slack cock. “Mack. What’s wrong? I’ve barely been able to get a rise out of you these last few times.”

“I know. I’m sorry, lass.”

Leda cocked her head and considered his limp package. She pointed her finger at his balls. “Would you like me to do that thing where I put my tongue down…?”

“No,” he interrupted with a smile. “It’s fine. Thank you for trying so hard.”

Leda sat up and offered him a sad grin. By St. Hilda’s knickers, she was so stunning his cock ought to be searching her out like a heat-seeking missile. With her lush body and flowing, brown locks, she could inspire a whole cathedral of bishops to spurt all over themselves like horny altar boys gawking at a
Playboy
in the sacristy.

But he had things on his mind, the same issue that had been ringing in his head like a church bell. Somehow he doubted he’d be up for a roll in the hay until he resolved it. “Leda, come here,” he said, offering her a blanket. He slid the sheets over his lower half. She scooted over next to him on the bed. “Do you ever think of…?” He took time articulating, trying not to choke on the word. “Mating?”

Leda stared as if she hadn’t heard the question. She blinked a few times, the only acknowledgment that she’d heard his question. “Mating? You mean with a selkie mate? For life?”

Fire danced in his cheeks. Since when did he blush? “Yes.”

Those of his kind didn’t typically seek out mates. As a whole, they weren’t always the most monogamous of creatures. It just came with the territory. Most selkies appreciated their status as sexual genies and enjoyed the lure of new partners. Of course, his parents had mated some six hundred years ago, a union that had resulted in seven randy selkie sons. And two of his brothers had been snared of late by fucking Cupid. His youngest brother Calan had just found his mate Maggie, a human woman turned selkie. And their older brother Angus was now a proud father of a wee girl and devoted husband to Elsie.

Selkies did mate, and Machar had to admit the idea was sticking with him like a steaming lump of dog shit on the bottom of his boot. He couldn’t seem to scrape it off.

“Are you thinking of mating with someone, Mack?” Leda asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Crossed his mind the way an eighteen-wheeler barreled down the highway. “I’m 593 years old, Leda. I can’t help thinking it might be time to settle down.”

“Yes, but you have the body of a thirty-year-old,” she teased, dancing her fingers over his chest. “And so have I.”

He grasped her hand. “Leda. Be serious.” Mack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I was wondering if you might be my mate.”

Leda’s dark eyes widened. She gawked at him and then tittered. “Me? With you? Mack, that’s ludicrous. We’re friends, with benefits I know, but friends mostly.” She twirled one of her chocolate curls with an elegant finger as her bottom lip plumped into a succulent moue. “Besides, I’m too young.”

“You’re four hundred years old.”

“Numbers.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “This is all because of wee Morgan, isn’t it?”

“Morgan? What does this have to do with my niece?”

“Ever since Elsie and Angus had that babe, you’ve become an uncle obsessed. You spend more time with that little thing than you do with me or anyone else.”

“She’s a pup. I want to be a good uncle to her.” Machar smiled at the thought of the dark-haired baby. “Besides, she’s adorable.”

Leda looked at him as a schoolmarm might to the boy who’d smuggled a toad into class. “I’m not disputing how adorable she is. I’m sure she’s lovely. But, Mack, you cannot deny you’ve always had a fascination for the wee bairns. I know how much you love it when comely widows find your pelt. It gives you an opportunity to frolic with their children, to play ‘Da’ for a spell. I understand the allure of a family, but it doesn’t mean you need to give up all that you are.”