The stained ivory sliver did resemble a tooth more than a shell, but it was straight as a sewing needle and unlike any shark tooth I’d ever seen. My stomach clenched as I wondered what sort of animal had such teeth.
“We should go before one of us steps on something worse.” I climbed to my feet and offered Lugh a hand. “There’s no sign of a shipwreck here, anyway.” I remembered the dark scales I’d seen immediately after the crash—because there wasn’t one. “We aren’t going to find any trace of Nessa Daley here, either. Mr. Gill and the others have searched this beach over a hundred times already.”
Lugh frowned and tossed the splinter into the waves. “You’re right. But not because Nessa drowned. She’s in Peel, and all this worry will blow over shortly.”
As we hurried from the beach, Lugh limping and leaning on Cat and me for support, my thoughts turned to the ivory splinter. Whether it was a tooth or a claw or part of a shell, I was certain of a few things: there was something sinister happening in Port Coire, and no one—not Cat or Lugh or even love for my sisters—could force me onto that beach again.
CHAPTER FIVE
My foot slid out from under me as the pebble-strewn earth gave way. I flailed my arms, clawing at the air. The large tin pail I’d brought sailed out of my hands and bounced down the path to the beach.
I landed on my backside, staring up at the brilliant morning sky. “Stupid Morag.” I wanted the satisfaction of cursing her while she couldn’t hear it. “Stupid beach.” I brushed dirt off my cloak and skirt. “Stupid eels.”
I couldn’t afford to lose the bucket. I refused to carry two dozen slimy snigs across town in my dress pockets. Trudging down the path between the cliffs, I took great care with each step. To my relief, the bucket had only tumbled a short distance.
The ocean flashed and sparkled under the sun in welcome, putting on a show for the girl on the island least likely to appreciate it. My bare feet met the mushy sand, making me cringe, and I picked my way around tide pools in search of the snigs.
If only Lugh and Cat could see me now.
As I walked along the shore, I fingered the horrible charm Morag had given me that morning.
“The throat bone of a Bollan wrasse,” she’d said gruffly, putting the pendant around my neck with oddly trembling hands. “Also known as a Bollan Cross. It’ll keep you from drowning.” The fishbone vaguely resembled a row of human teeth, but I’d seen wrasses’ impressive mouths enough times to know Morag wasn’t lying.
If only I had the faintest idea of where to look for snigs, I wouldn’t be on the beach long enough to need the bone’s protection.
When I was quite small, and unafraid of the water, Grandad had shown me a nest of snigs. The silvery eels were no bigger than his fingers. But their nest had been out in water up to my knobby toddler knees, and there was no way I’d ever walk into the sea of my own free will now.
Inhaling the nausea-inducing scents of brine and stranded shellfish, I hitched up my skirt and knelt shakily beside a deep tide pool. Who knew what was waiting to bite or sting me in there? Still, my conscience demanded I put forth some effort.
I braced myself for the chill water, rolled up my sleeve, and plunged my hand into the pool. A gray-shelled creature about the size of a coin skittered out of reach.
Gasping, I withdrew my hand. What was I thinking, coming here? I was too scared to pick up a wriggling eel. I couldn’t even stick my hand in a tide pool for a few seconds.
Rising unsteadily to my feet, I spotted a long piece of driftwood resting in the sand nearby and grasped it, thinking I might be able to spear a few snigs on its sharper end—even if I lost the contents of my stomach in the process.
Cold sand oozed between my toes as I paced, scanning the area for kittiwakes. The white and gray seabirds preferred to eat snigs, so seeing their feathers would give me hope.
Nothing stirred but the breeze tugging my hair. Even the sun appeared to be a distant spectator, refusing to warm the sea and sky.
I trained my eyes on the ground, searching for anything I could bring to Morag to appease her: a perfect scallop shell, a jumble of sea glass, a smooth lump of lightning-struck sand. I didn’t know what might put a smile on her wrinkled face, but gathering flotsam from the beach was worth the gamble for extra coin in my pocket.
A flash of emerald green caught my eye. I tossed my driftwood spear aside and grabbed it, expecting to feel the water-rounded sides of sea glass.
“Mollaght er!” I growled as a razor-sharp edge sliced into my thumb. Someone, probably a thoughtless tourist, had smashed a bottle and left it where anyone might stumble on the broken shards.