Malachi jerked back. A thin, bony hand clutched Rhys’ foot—fingers unnaturally long, tangled with streaming seaweed. He shook his head to clear his vision. It had to be the river. Tiredness was playing tricks on his mind, the cold clogging his ears and stinging his eyes. He kicked harder, fighting against the water and pain. Rhys was there and that was all that mattered.
Rhys reached out for him, eyes wide and terrified.
The aching muscles in Malachi’s arms tore as he stretched out his hand, so close their fingertips brushed. He caught the fabric of Rhys’ t-shirt—just for a second, before Rhys was yanked down like he weighed nothing at all. Bubbles spilled from his mouth; screams lost to the dark.
Without thinking and almost out of air, Malachi followed. An arm clamped around his waist, crushing what little air he had left. He trashed and clawed as he was dragged up towards the light.
Calmness washed over him, taking away the urge to fight. This had happened before: the boat, the water, being pulled to the surface. In every nightmare, it was Dad who saved him. The motion was familiar, almost comforting, so he didn’t fight it. Any moment now, he’d wake up in his bed, drenched in sweat.
But instead of rising, he kept sinking. Up became down. The grip around his waist tightened. Panic surged like wildfire. He kicked and clawed, desperate to break free, but the hold only dragged him deeper. The darkness thickened, swallowing the last traces of light above.
He twisted, trying to see the face of whoever—or whatever—had him, but his lungs screamed for air. His body grew heavy and cold gnawed into his bones.
At last, he broke free and drifted towards the riverbed. Below him, Rhys hung limp in the arms of the creature. It turned its head and smiled at Malachi, with a sharp, toothy grin. Its piercing blue eyes, alive with anger, locked on his. Malachi’s scream burst in a stream of bubbles that spiralled up into the void.
Chapter 1
Present Day
Dusk swept off the rocky shore on Latharna Bay, an island off the coast of Northern Ireland, on a late summer’s evening. Mayor Martin Johnston came down to the Polar Bear—a large rectangular rock painted white, with cartoonish features of a bear—for a spot of fishing after a long, stressful day at the Town Hall. A few swimmers lingered on the beach, enjoying the last of the light, but the jet skiers and paddle boarders had left for the night.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, just a slight chill in the air. Perfect fishing weather. Martin rolled his eyes at the smiling bear, cursing whoever had given it a fresh coat of paint. Tourists flocked to have their picture taken with the Latharna Polar Bear, and the locals guarded it like a sacred relic. But to Martin, it was a garish stain on the coastline he’d spent ten years marketing to investors. He placed his tackle box behind the Polar Bear, giving him privacy from anyone passing who might want to steal a moment of his time.
The recent influx of planning applications made him amarked man by locals who wanted to limit the number of development sites on the island. After nearly a year of legal wrangling, he’d finally signed off on the derelict land at Murdersley Hill, clearing the way for new, high-end housing. He’d earned a moment's peace to celebrate the achievement and the discrete financial reward that came with it.
His legs ached from a long day at his desk. Groaning, he stooped over and hauled up his rubber waders. The rocks down to the sea were sharp and uneven—one wrong step would snap an ankle. But Martin climbed down the bank with ease, his footing sure from years of practice.
The cool water bit into his legs, but he sighed with contentment and cast his line. The sun melted into the horizon, turning the water molten gold. Laughter drifting from the beach caught his attention. Across the bay, two young women dried off after a swim. One of them dropped a piece of litter but didn’t stop to pick it up.
“Bloody tourists.” Martin shook his head. “They’ve no respect.” He grumbled for a few more moments before the rhythmicsplash of the waves against the back of the Polar Bear washed the negativity from his mind. His thoughts drifted into a daydream of being crownedFisherman of the Yearat the Angler’s Rest Fishing Club.
The anglers of Latharna hadn’t had much luck this season. To catch anything worth weighing would give Martin bragging rights for months, and land him the coveted trophy that had always eluded him. It had been six years, or maybe even seven, since fishing had been this poor. His grandfather told him tales of the fish disappearing when he was a boy, but Martin had always lost interest long before the monster ever rose from the deep.
A sharp tug on the fishing line snapped him out of his daydream. His stomach jumped. He tightened his grip,pulse quickening. A catch—at last. He’d been fishing since his grandfather first taught him, long before the damn Polar Bear existed, and the thrill of reeling in a catch never lost its power.
He wound in the line with slow determination, protecting the fragile thread. Whatever he’d hooked was strong, thrashing hard enough to stir the still water into ripples. Martin waded a few steps deeper, prepared to meet his foe halfway. Sweat trickled down his temple as he fought against the weight on the line.
A prickle crawled across his skin—that unmistakable feeling of being watched. He shook it off, needing to focus. The line jerked once, weaker this time. The fish was tiring, the battle almost won.
The waves lapped higher around him. Excitement surged through his veins. He gave the rod one last heave—and the line snapped. He stumbled backwards, flailing to keep his balance. The heat of his cheeks was cooled by the water as it splashed over him. Panting, he spat out seawater and wiped the salt from his lips on his sleeve. His shoulders slumped—victory gone in an instant.
Thank god no one had seen it. The lads at the angling club would never let him live it down. In the corner of his eye, the water rippled enough to pique his curiosity. He stilled, eyes tracking the current, the way he was taught years ago.
Something splashed to his left. Another splash, then another, and another, each in a different direction. Something grazed against his leg. Martin jolted, heart hammering against his ribs.
Adrenaline surged. He’d found a shoal, and this time he would make the catch. He turned towards the rocks to ready another lure when a tug at his left leg stopped him inhis tracks. Gooseflesh prickled along his arms. He kicked, shaking his leg free of whatever debris had snagged him.
Turning back towards the sea, he squinted into the amber glare of the sinking sun, half expecting to find some beast of the deep rising from the water. Tutting, he forced out a laugh. Superstitious nonsense. He was a staunch man of science for god’s sake—the mayor of Latharna, not some whelp hiding behind the sofa during story time at the hearth.
He took a step towards the shore when something sharp dug into his right ankle. He cried out, kicking at the debris, but it held fast.
“Oh for god’s sake.” He bent, reaching into the water to untangle himself from whatever rubbish his leg was caught on. He’d have to get his secretary to post another reminder about littering along the coast on social media. Salt spray hit his face as he leaned into the water when a hand seized his wrist. Thin bony fingers clamped tight, nails biting into his flesh.
“What the hell—?” Martin flailed, his arms cutting useless arcs through the air. His strength drained from him in a sickening rush. A shadow slid beneath the surface.
A hard shunt from the side knocked the wind out of him, forcing him under.
Cold swallowed him whole. He surfaced, coughing up half the Irish Sea from his lungs, gasping for breath as he fought to find his footing. Adrenaline drove him forward, legs pumping, lungs burning. The man of science was a stranger to him now; stories from the hearth rarely had a happy ending and he was right in the middle of a new tale.
