tautness of guilt. Shan was fair of face, strong of body, and good of heart. So, why did the idea of becoming his blood brother so off-putting?
Kiss me, Cuan. Spawn with me. Be my blood brother.
When and if he returned home, he would have to go through with the ritual and pledge his lifelong devotion to Shan. He’d put off taking the plunge for too long already, and the other warriors were growing suspicious. If they focused too much on his movements, they might start to notice—and soon put a stop to—his secret escapes, which he could abide even less than pretending an attraction he did not feel.
* * * *
Still fuming over her conversation with Peter, Corey made her way down to the beach. In broad daylight, the shoreline looked even more ravaged than she’d dared to imagine. Pools of oil stretched as far as the eye could see. The surf was the color and consistency of mud, and the noxious fumes made her nostrils burn and her head hurt.
At the far end of the beach, somebody had pitched a large white tent. Nearer, a group of men in hardhats and gumboots were dragging rakes along what appeared to be clean sand. Pausing near them, she watched in astonished silence as auburn crude, looking disturbingly like blood, oozed to the surface. All around were piles of clear plastic bags filled with sandy oil. When one of the workers stopped to mop his brow, she asked if he knew where she might find the on-scene commander.
The worker leaned on his rake, dark eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You a reporter?”
“No,” she told him, folding her arms to look more authoritative. “I’m Cordelia Parker, the corporate mouthpiece for Conch.”
“Good,” he said, “because we’ve been given strict orders not to talk to reporters.”
Corey’s gaze darted up and down the beach. “Have there been many journalists around this morning?”
He shrugged. “Only the one…and the helicopter from Channel Two.”
The sound of somebody coming up behind her turned her around. It was Lachlan MacInnes, looking like he’d had a bad night. He was unshaven, red-eyed, and still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt from yesterday.
“I see the crews have arrived,” he said. “A day late and a dollar short, I might point out. Have they managed to plug the leak yet?”
“I’ll brief you just as soon as I’ve been briefed myself,” she told him, scanning the beach for someone who might be Mr. Trowbridge. The prime candidate—a tall man with a hardhat and clipboard—was down the beach near the tent, knee-deep in water and talking to the men who were laying down the booms.
“If you think you can blow me off that easily, you’ve got another thing coming,” MacInnes blustered. “For your information, I made a few calls last night. Among other things, I’ve learned there’s no record of Ketos , which makes her presence here doubly suspicious.”
His news struck Corey like a blow. Swallowed hard, she avoided eye contact while struggling to maintain an outward appearance of nonchalance. “Like I said, I can’t tell you anything until after I’ve been briefed.” She started walking toward the man with the clipboard. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find the on-scene commander.”
MacInnes called after her. “While you’re at it, ask him why the coastguard’s got the bloody channel blocked off—an obvious ploy to keep the press and the outraged public from learning the truth. Just what is it you lot are trying to hide?”
Spinning around to face him, she shouted back, “Have you considered the possibility that, instead of being an attempt to cover something up, it might just be a safety precaution?”
“Of course I’ve considered it.” He held her gaze with a searing glower. “But I wasn’t born yesterday, either. I know stonewalling and smokescreens when I see them, lass.”
So did she, and this was beginning to take on all the signs. What was Ketos doing afloat when she’d supposedly been unregistered? Why
Kiss me, Cuan. Spawn with me. Be my blood brother.
When and if he returned home, he would have to go through with the ritual and pledge his lifelong devotion to Shan. He’d put off taking the plunge for too long already, and the other warriors were growing suspicious. If they focused too much on his movements, they might start to notice—and soon put a stop to—his secret escapes, which he could abide even less than pretending an attraction he did not feel.
* * * *
Still fuming over her conversation with Peter, Corey made her way down to the beach. In broad daylight, the shoreline looked even more ravaged than she’d dared to imagine. Pools of oil stretched as far as the eye could see. The surf was the color and consistency of mud, and the noxious fumes made her nostrils burn and her head hurt.
At the far end of the beach, somebody had pitched a large white tent. Nearer, a group of men in hardhats and gumboots were dragging rakes along what appeared to be clean sand. Pausing near them, she watched in astonished silence as auburn crude, looking disturbingly like blood, oozed to the surface. All around were piles of clear plastic bags filled with sandy oil. When one of the workers stopped to mop his brow, she asked if he knew where she might find the on-scene commander.
The worker leaned on his rake, dark eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You a reporter?”
“No,” she told him, folding her arms to look more authoritative. “I’m Cordelia Parker, the corporate mouthpiece for Conch.”
“Good,” he said, “because we’ve been given strict orders not to talk to reporters.”
Corey’s gaze darted up and down the beach. “Have there been many journalists around this morning?”
He shrugged. “Only the one…and the helicopter from Channel Two.”
The sound of somebody coming up behind her turned her around. It was Lachlan MacInnes, looking like he’d had a bad night. He was unshaven, red-eyed, and still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt from yesterday.
“I see the crews have arrived,” he said. “A day late and a dollar short, I might point out. Have they managed to plug the leak yet?”
“I’ll brief you just as soon as I’ve been briefed myself,” she told him, scanning the beach for someone who might be Mr. Trowbridge. The prime candidate—a tall man with a hardhat and clipboard—was down the beach near the tent, knee-deep in water and talking to the men who were laying down the booms.
“If you think you can blow me off that easily, you’ve got another thing coming,” MacInnes blustered. “For your information, I made a few calls last night. Among other things, I’ve learned there’s no record of Ketos , which makes her presence here doubly suspicious.”
His news struck Corey like a blow. Swallowed hard, she avoided eye contact while struggling to maintain an outward appearance of nonchalance. “Like I said, I can’t tell you anything until after I’ve been briefed.” She started walking toward the man with the clipboard. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find the on-scene commander.”
MacInnes called after her. “While you’re at it, ask him why the coastguard’s got the bloody channel blocked off—an obvious ploy to keep the press and the outraged public from learning the truth. Just what is it you lot are trying to hide?”
Spinning around to face him, she shouted back, “Have you considered the possibility that, instead of being an attempt to cover something up, it might just be a safety precaution?”
“Of course I’ve considered it.” He held her gaze with a searing glower. “But I wasn’t born yesterday, either. I know stonewalling and smokescreens when I see them, lass.”
So did she, and this was beginning to take on all the signs. What was Ketos doing afloat when she’d supposedly been unregistered? Why
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