The Serpent in the Stone - By Nicki Greenwood Page 0,1

to see Alan Flintrop and his smug, toast-of-New-York’s-anthropology-circles smile. Instead, she found a man in a denim jacket and blue jeans, sitting in a camp chair and writing in a small leather book. She dropped her bag. “Who are you?”

The man looked up, and she formed a quick impression of stubble and magazine-worthy good looks. His storm-blue gaze traveled over her figure, sending tiny frissons of awareness—and hazy recognition—through her body. A fringe of chocolate brown forelock couldn’t quite hide the thin scar over one of his eyebrows. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, which sent her hackles up instantly as he laid aside his book and stood up. “Ian Waverly,” he said, and held out his hand.

Suspicion elbowed her interest aside. That name. Why did she know that name? She slid her hand into his.

Slam. She felt her eyes change color from hazel to emerald, the way most people felt rippling gooseflesh across the skin. The influx of power sent a chill up her spine. His grip tightened on her hand, convulsive, and then his thoughts rushed into her mind in a flurry of images.

Her grade school playground. Todd Garrett was picking on her sister again. He’d plucked Faith’s locket, a golden one, from around her neck and was taunting her with it. When Sara reached out, her sister’s necklace flew unaided across the schoolyard and into her hand. She looked up, scared and shocked at what she’d done, and her gaze locked onto that of a boy with storm-blue eyes.

Sara screwed her eyes shut to cut the images off. She reopened them cautiously, though she knew they would have turned back to their normal color the moment she closed them.

This man knew what she was. If he remembered. If he believed what he’d seen. She’d guarded the secret of her gifts ever since that first instance, that unprepared childhood fumble. Fear sliced through her and she stamped it back.

What in God’s name was he doing here? Fighting to control the dread galloping along her nerves, she risked another look at him. The expression on his face spoke volumes.

Hell yes, he remembered.

****

Ian hadn’t wanted to believe what he’d seen then, and didn’t now. Hating the savage righteousness clawing through his gut, he pulled his hand from hers and fisted it, as if digging his nails into his palm could stop the proof in its tracks.

This was why he’d followed her to Shetland. This was why he’d volunteered to do a birding project on this godforsaken little speck in the ocean. Hell, he’d been torn between watching her and avoiding her for the past twenty years. He’d often wondered—against his will—what happened to her after they graduated high school. Did she still have her power? Had he been mistaken?

No question now. Her eyes had changed color. This woman, this slip of a woman, had power just like—

He stifled the rest of that thought and forced a smile. “We work at the university together. I teach in the biology department. Wildlife,” he added, tilting his head toward the cliffs, where scores of seabirds circled in the salty air.

“Sara Markham. Doctor Markham,” she said. Her gaze scoured him.

She’d grown. Obviously, she’d grown, what the hell had he expected? But time had been unfairly kind to Sara—Doctor—Markham. He tried to ignore the curves of her body and the way her hair blew loose around her shoulders. The way she held herself rigid in the flight-ready pose of cornered prey. She looked like a wild creature herself, belonging more to wind and water than to his childhood nightmares.

Like a selkie. The ferryman who brought him to Hvitmar had told him stories about the mythical seals-turned-women that haunted the Shetland coastlines and took human mates. Crazy stories.

Not so crazy right now.

They weren’t alone. Behind Sara stood another woman, tall and blond, with a knapsack over her shoulder and an interested stare on her face. On her right were two men, carrying bags of their own. “I’m doing a study on the local birds,” Ian said at last.

Sara crossed her arms. “On my island? That’s quite a coincidence.”

Her island? The image of the selkie evaporated in a cloud of territorial insult. He forgot what she was. “This island is big enough for two researchers,” he said. “You don’t interfere with my birds, and I won’t interfere with your dig.”

Her voice went frosty. “You know about the dig?”

“Yeah, I know about the dig.” And even now, part of him wished more and more that he’d never