The name still echoed in Derek’s memory, four months later. As he stared across the table into Kellen’s unfathomable eyes, he drew in a shuddery breath and tried to get a grip on himself. But everything inside him felt as tumultuous as that storm-tossed sea in which he’d lost his lover. Half-remembered snatches of silvery song filled his head—his mother’s melodious voice, singing him to sleep with stories the elders told, nostalgic tales of merrows who used to haunt the inlets and ragged cliffs, watching for the shipwrecks which brought with them caskets of rum and drowned men.
Those were the days, his mam used to reminisce, when humans still braved the waters, before they took to the air. Merrows were fond of alcohol—Kellen’s shot after shot of the nasty Undertow gave proof of that—and
