Borne from the Sea (Blood Waters 1)

By Eve Hathaway

From the Publisher that brought you popular short story series Witching Call, Hostile Hearts, Earthbound Angels, The January Morrison Files Psychic Series, Ralph's Gift, Song of Teeth, Children of Time, Chains of Darkness, Season of Love, Friend Zone, The Magaram Legends, The Night Sculptor Series, Requiem for a Dream, and now, Blood Waters...

HE COMES FROM THE SEA, BUT IT ROBS HIM OF HIS MEMORY
A YOUNG MAN WITHOUT A PAST, AND A YOUNG WOMAN WITH AN UNCERTAIN FUTURE

Mila's parents run a Bed and Breakfast on one of the most isolated stretches of beach in Mexico. As someone who has migrated from the States into that sleepy corner of the world, Mila is bored and lonely, and feels like Cinderella, getting up early every morning for the thankless task of doing chores around the dilapidated house all day.

Then, one day, she comes across a young man who's been washed up on the shore. He can't remember anything about who he was or even what his name is. Her parents take him in, and he begins to fill in what's been missing in her life.

But just when she thinks he might actually like her, he turns away—what is he hiding?

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EXCERPT
Mila averted her eyes, which was hard to do because his eyes were a startling shade of green—the color of a deep pool. And like a deep pool, their color seemed to change slightly depending on the light. There was a certain sadness about his eyes that made him seem very old, even though his body—from what she could see of it through the patches of sand that coated him—was clearly a young man’s. His skin was tanned to a dark brown, while his black hair had matted into dreadlocks.

In her literature course at Quintana Roo, there had been a Discussion board full of what one could discern from appearances: how accurate they were, how informed the impressions were by pre-existing stereotypes. What would they say about him, she wondered, besides the fact that he’s indigenous?

“Are you okay?” Mila asked.

He cocked his head, but didn’t answer. She tried again in Spanish, and finally in (bad) Yucatec. At least he recognized the words, unlike the other locals who pretended not to understand her, and he smiled and nodded gratefully.

“My name is Mila,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“I am....” And then he turned so pale she was afraid he was going to die, after all. “I don’t remember.”

Mila let out a breath she didn’t realize that she’d been holding. “Well, then, what do you remember?” she asked.

He frowned with the effort, but his eyes began to well up with tears of fright. He reached for her hand and she took it, worried at how violently it was shaking.

“Nothing,” he said, finally. “I remember nothing.”

“Nothing?” Mila said. “How did you get hurt—”

“I remember nothing,” he said quietly. But underneath the calm she could hear the edge of desperation, sharp and cold, as it threatened to cut through his demeanor and turn him into a quivering wreck.

Next in the Series:

2. The Tribute to the Sacred Waters

3. The God of the Sky Serpents

4. Master of the Wild

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Ross
• Release date: Nov 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311440358

Book preview

Borne From The Sea

By Eve Hathaway

Published by Publications Circulations LLC.

SmashWords Edition

All contents copyright (C) 2014 by Publications Circulations LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, companies and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter One

IT'S A GOOD THING the tourist season begins after the school year, said Mila's mother, Gloria, as she barged into Mila's room with a full laundry basket balanced on her hip.

Mila opened her eyes, keeping her expression neutral. The clock on the wall said it was six in the morning, but the halo around the curtains meant that the sun was high and hot already.

These need to be ironed and folded, Gloria said, dropping the basket next to Mila's bed. The sheets inside sighed softly, as though relieved. Gloria Alvarez, standing an even five feet tall and weighing barely more than a hundred pounds after a full meal, was not someone to be argued with. Remember, we have guests tonight.

Yeah, Mila said. Poor suckers, she added silently. The bed-and-breakfast the Alvarezes ran would have been pretty cool had they been anywhere near a decent town. But it was halfway between Tulum, which few people had heard of, and Cancun, which nobody ever left. Their visitors came expecting a deserted beach, not realizing that along with a deserted beach was a semi-deserted, dying village which couldn't even be bothered to give itself a name. Ten fishing families, a plantain farmer, and a restaurant didn't even warrant a dot on the maps of the region.

Mila made no move to get out of bed, a small rebellion against the tyranny of having to wake up at all. Yesterday was her last day of school-she took intro-level online courses at the Universidad Quintana Roo, since there were no schools here-and that warranted some kind of break. Thankfully, Gloria left with only a small humph of disapproval and did not launch into yet another tirade about how hard they were working and why couldn't her daughter bring herself to work a little rather than daydream about boys? These arguments had been going on between them over the two years since they'd moved to Mexico. The Yucatan, more specifically, some of the people here were a bit touchy about being called Mexicans.

Mila counted to ten before she threw the blanket off herself and swung her feet from the bed to touch the cool stone floor with her toes.

Theirs was a large house, even by American standards. It was once the small manor home of a local official, the realtor had told them, and then launched into a long spiel detailing the history of the place and the artful mosaics that had been laid into the floor. Not that she paid any attention to those details. Two years ago, she was just too angry-at her grandparents for being so ill, at her parents for dropping everything in the US and not giving a damn about her, at the economies of both Mexico and the US that made it more worthwhile to stay, at the crazy language the locals spoke that made it impossible to make friends-not that there were people her age to befriend. The people here were old and bitter, and their children had more sense than her father did because they left and never returned.

She was still angry but, during the winter, her father had at least installed air conditioning in the bedrooms, so now it was merely a resentful simmer instead of a full-on rage.

The house was a sprawling single-floor structure, built in the shape of a rectangle around an open courtyard. It was once beautiful, even Mila had to